The Last Man Standing
by norsemungandr
Summary: "Some Agents work better in pairs, while others do quite the opposite. Coulson is not too sure where they stand. Only that they do. As a terribly dysfunctional but nevertheless worthwhile - pair." H.Y.D.R.A. attack with unknown intentions, leaving a hyper-lethal 0-8-4 in the company of Coulson's team. Set before "The Well".
1. Blacksite

**[**THE**LAST**MAN**STANDING****]**

* * *

00**1:**  
**BLACK**SITE

* * *

**: 2043 HRS [Local Time] | 15, July | [CLASSIFIED Location], Chornohora Mountain Range, Western Ukraine :**

A good seventeen and a half miles east from what was once the old mining town of V-, the surrounding land builds upwards into a sharp faced mountainside. It's around here that the scrappy, off brown grass begins to thin, replaced by crumbling weather-worn earth and solid flysch rock. While this is in no way a particularly refreshing picture, it is actually worse then it had been before. Western Ukraine had since suffered from an unusually dry summer and despite having been spared the brunt of the oppressive weather, the foliage found on the mountains had long since deteriorated. The trees now resemble spindly twigs, bushes are naught but spikey feeling prickles and those odd looking plants with sharp spines and pale flowers have been replaced by withered looking piles of brown.

However, the further up one ventures, the emptier it gets and it's up on this empty mountainside that it sits. The S.H.I.E.L.D Biological Defence Centre, or, as it has long since been christened "The будинок відпочинку." Because out of all the re-purposed buildings on the planet, it was the only holiday resort no Agent wanted to get sent to.

Partly, because it's a morgue for highly infectious diseases - and partly, because it's located in a country that for one, does not tolerate S.H.I.E.L.D Operatives.

It's beyond the будинок відпочинку's walls that they sit, the rag-tag team of former Ukrainian Airmobile Forces. Well, three of the five actually sit - two others roam around a varied one hundred metre radius, up and down old hiker routes, across ridges, over rock formations. They follow the spread of runaway guard dogs, the spit-wedge tracks of mountain goats and, sometimes, the bootprints of their comrades. One of these S.H.I.E.L.D Operatives plants both his feet on a vacant camping chair and his companion does not stir at the movement, but rather continues to bring the bow across the strings of his violin slowly.

The notes, deep and forlorn cast the darkening outpost in a onerously sullen mood, but it's not entirely uncomfortable. The cold is kept at bay with thick coats and a small space heater, and their shift is nearly over to boot. If anyone is depressed, it isn't these former soldiers.

"Не багато агентів відтворення музики." The Agent with his feet up, Basara, states. He's a big man, shapeless of face thanks to the development of a large, equally shapeless beard. His companion however, the violinist, Agent Shevchenko, is quite the opposite. Small and quick with restless grey eyes and sharp, strong features. Shevchenko stops playing for a moment to regard his fellow guard and shrugs, plucking at the strings.

He seems to come up with his reply pretty quickly, "Я мав багато часу для практики."

That makes the larger man laugh and soon, even Shevchenko is cracking a small grin. The smaller Agent does not often smile, rarely grins. While in no doubt a very easy going and gentle male, he is defiantly reserved when it came to expression.

Being of a Level Seven position, Shevchenko does not have to go out on patrol duty - he doesn't have to do much aside from check up on the security and observe, but there is little to do in the будинок відпочинку and thus, going out has become something of a time killer. That, and many of the Agents stationed in Ukraine are former soldiers - they know the land better then the American security 'experts' ever will. While the Security men guarding the base get lost after venturing a few miles away, Shevchenko and his men know half of the mountainside like the back of their hand.

There comes the pad of boots over the sound of Shevchenko plucking his violin stings and Basara frowns. "Чуєте, що шум?" He asks and the smaller male stops. The other, a hulking fellow by the name of Machnik has his hand hesitating over his pistol.

Shevchenko mirrors Basara's frown. "Так." he stands, grabbing his Cobalt-backed RnD customized .357 magnum revolver as he does so. The weapon is heavy in his hands, the metal cold to the touch. Moving forwards slowly, standing at the very edge of the lighted area he looks out into the pitch black surroundings.

Machnik glances back towards the illuminated base further up land, then back at the Level Seven Agent. "Ну. Ви бачите що-небудь, Шевченко?"

Looking over his shoulder at the larger male, Shevchenko shakes his head. "Перебування тут. Я дам вам кричати якщо я знаходжу щось. Радіо назад, якщо я роблю." Basara makes to say something but with a wave of his revolver, he is silenced. "Relax, Comrade. Я просто хочу поглянути."

"Hurry back." Machnik's gruff Ukrainian accent makes the English sound odd, but Shevchenko has no difficulty making out what he said. As he starts to trudge further into the darkness, the muscle bound former soldier turns towards his bearded counterpart. "Sort out that radio, will you товариш?"

From lower down the mountain, towards the north, the suspicious sounds began to sound again, along with rustling and the clink of a handgun. Shevchenko of course was the first to hear them, he went silent instantly and stepped backwards again so he could be seen. "Give the flashlight." He orders, in English and one of the two men throws him a spare. It's heavy and when he turns it on, the bright beam rips through the darkness.

And yet they could still see nothing.

Waving his hand for complete silence, one hand wrapped around his handgun, the other around the flashlight he moved in his intended destination. Basara moves forward somewhat too, as he was curious to see what he had heard the first time, but Shevchenko turned back and frowned at him angrily. Then there comes the noise of someone straining and through the faint beams of light, they catch the glance of a uniform.

"Fuck- _вогонь_!" Machnik yells but, for some reason, Shevchenko did not shoot. Both men pause, "Шевченко? ...Shevchenko!? You still alive?" The two men begin to whisper in agitation but after hearing the sound of laughter, they both fall into silence again. Basara's face becomes furious.

"Чому ви сміються, ви Идиот!" The bearded man shouts but for some reason, that makes Shevchenko laugh even harder.

"It has three feet and two heads! Aliens! There are aliens here! Блокування і навантаження, панове. It's like New York all over again!" Shevchenko snorts as he comes back into the range of the light, tossing back the Flashlight with another bark of laughter. "I caught Ralf with his pants down - nearly blew his fucking head off, though! He was finding a place to-"

"Allright allright." Ralf Cameron comes storming past him, the American's face is an unattractive beetroot hue. "Yes, no need to tell them. Sir... how did you find me anyway?"

Shevchenko pauses as he sits back down, violin in hand. Something crosses his features, but he's soon wiped it off and he's plucking at the strings again as if nothing happened. "What was that, товариш?"

Cameron nearly frowns, "I was hidden pretty well - but, _you_ - you walked straight over to me as if you knew I was there."

Silence, as aside from the plucking of the violins strings. "Oh, I could hear you." Shevchenko brushes it off and then he's bursts into a slightly more light-hearted performance. Sighing Basara puts his feet back up and everything resumes on as normal. Cameron however continues to frown. Just how Shevchenko managed to move directly towards him, over a five hundred metre distance, of which is rugged, hard terrain - in the dark, no less - he does not know, but as he looks back to the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D Agents, who are casually lounging around, waiting for their shift to end, he decides it's not worth it. It's not like Shevchenko would tell him, anyway. So there was no point in dwelling on it.

* * *

**: 2105 HRS [Local Time] | 15, July | [UNKNOWN Location], Arctic Ocean :**

"How do you outsmart Omnicompetence?"

Despite the question being posed gently with little emotional hype, it doesn't stop Jemma Simmons from looking up with a look of half shock, half bemusement. She pauses at the figure in the doorway, blinks and then, after a few moments of consideration, grins. "I'm sorry?" She asks. Fitz doesn't acknowledge either of them, but rather continues to type on his keyboard furiously. Hunched over, he stares at the screen, miming words as if talking to himself.

Agent Coulson moves further into the lab with a shrug, repeating himself casually as he does so, as if he was asking about, say, laundry.

"How do you outsmart Omnicompetence?"

Glancing from the screen, Fitz double checks before snapping his attention towards Coulson properly, his brow lowers. "We were just going on about gradschool physics… where does Omnipotence come in?" Simmons gives him a look, giving Coulson the opinion that the conversation was actually very much one-sided.

"Omicomptence. Not Omnipotence." Coulson drops a heavy beige file onto the worktop, placing his hand on it soon afterwards. "Believe it or not, it's a genuine question." The Agent is not surprised when Fitz looks as if he's about to jump into a whole branch of science that Coulson for one can't comprehend, so he raises one hand and grimaces. "We're taking in a 0-8-4."

Shock, then surprise and then a form of excitement - those are the things that cross their faces. It's Fitz however, who gets it out first. "Wh- an actual 0-8-4?" Coulson nods, "Wow... Simmons! ... wait, another one, so soon?" Fitz has jumped up, rubbing his hands in ample excitement. It leaves Coulson feeling a tad guilty - not much, but it's there, because the engineer is actually going have miss out on this one. Not for long, but for now - he just needs Simmons.

"I know Fitz… I know you're exited, but for the time being can I talk to Simmons alone? … You'll see him sooner or later, it's just that its-"

The engineer seems to know the drill and nods, bouncing on the back of his heels. "Classified, right. Wait - you said he!"

Coulson grimaces, yes, yes he did.

Thankfully, Fitz seems to understand and just turns towards Simmons with excitement gleaming in his eyes. "Right, sure... I'll, be back later."

"Oh and Fitz?" Coulson waits until he has turned around, and when Fitz does, he raises both his eyebrows. "Just between us three."

Fitz gives him a look, "Of course. Sure..." But the excitement comes back again and he's stepping out with enthusiasm. "Brilliant!"

When Coulson turns back around again, it seems that Fitz is the less exited of the two, because Simmons has inched her chair over so she's practically staring Coulson down. Stepping back somewhat, Coulson grabs the file and opens it, showing the picture of an expressionless dark haired male. A S.H.I.E.L.D. Personnel file. "This," He states "Is Caesar Shevchenko." Simmons takes the file suddenly, eyes darting over the information that has been de-classified for her viewing. There isn't a large amount, all history, operational or otherwise, alongside most of his medical and service information has been blacked out.

"He's S.H.I.E.L.D?" She looks up, her expression mixed with awe and genuine excitement. It makes Coulson grimace inwardly. Was he ever this... _eager_? Or was it just a scientist thing? He shurgs and then nods, answering her question. She gasps. "We have a living 0-8-4 in our ranks!"

Again Coulson nods, time to get to business. "He's a... good guy," He stats lamely. "I know him personally, but you'll see below... he has a bit of a health issue."

Simmons continues on flawlessly, eyes darting across the file. "Malignant hypertension, Seizures, chronic migraines – all of this through extended 'Omnicomptence'." She pauses for a moment, as if considering something. "What do you want me to do, then?"

"Make him manageable," Couslon frowns, then shakes his head. "If he thinks to hard, he becomes difficult to handle. I need to get him on the Bus without that happening."

"So..." She fills in the blanks, "You want me to stop him from thinking?" Then Simmons pauses, pursing her lips. "How does that even work?"

"Classified." Coulson grunts, leaning against the worktop and folding his arms. "But what I can tell you is that he'll be staying with us for awhile. Off the grid. All I need you to do is... get some form of, say, anaesthetic."

"Can I ask why?" But she adds the rest of her sentence on suddenly, "On a medical stand point, of course."

Coulson considers it for a moment. "He gets hard to... calm down. Especially when something new is involved. If he does, we won't like that, and chances are - he won't either."

"So you want something to knock him out?"

The Agent nods, "But he won't just accept me walking up to him with a syringe in my hand." When Simmons arches an eyebrow, he rubs his forehead. "We have rules - and Caesar really doesn't like needles." For a moment, Simmons is silent.

"We're kidnapping a S.H.I.E.L.D.. Agent."

"Take that and add some tact, yes... It needs to be discrete, discrete enough for him to drink it. If he notices something he'll spew it back out in my face." And this is true, Coulson has suppressed memories of first degree facial burns and permanently scared third ribs. Not that he's about to mention that, of course, so he just sighs. "Well... I guess, no. No that won't work." Simmons seems to be considering something, but he just continues on. Setting the ground rules before they go wading in. "What I can suggest is some form of hypnotic – a sedative, but he's an Agent he's trained to look for these things-"

There is the faint noise of swishing sliding doors and Coulson is alerted to a presence standing behind him. He doesn't have to turn around to see who it is.

"You can give it too him." Melinda May says idly, picking up the file slowly and giving it a once over. Simmons makes to say something.

"She's been briefed." Coulson answers her unspoken question, and then turns to May with a half frown. "... and that's a big breach of trust."

May doesn't seem to concerned, "He's a big boy."

_Armed with ten years combat experience and the ability to handle every situation under the sun._

That thought makes Coulson grimace, but Simmons doesn't seem to notice. "So what, you can go up to him and just hand him say, a banana plugged with sleeping pills?"

May seems mildly amused by that statement and Coulson goes back to his forehead rubbing. "Not that obvious."

"He trusts Coulson." May states again, giving him one of those looks.

"After years of mutual trust and consideration." Coulson argues, but he knows he's not going to win.

"What about the Night-Night Gun?" May then asks slowly, Coulson had considered it but when he looks to Simmons, he knows it's going to be shot down pretty quickly.

"The tranquillizer is addictive, only slightly, but that's all it takes." He states and Simmons nods, they had talked about this before. Or rather, Coulson had asked but then the conversation had been hijacked by a arguing FitzSimmons and Ward.

Simmons pushes her chair across the room towards a cabinet and after a few moments of struggle, grabs a large binder and begins to look through it. "There is a certain compound in which I could use, basically tasteless – untraceable in strong smelling substances." Looking at Coulson, she bites her bottom lip for a moment. "Machine coffee could work, he likes coffee right?" Coulson is about to answer when she buts in suddenly, pulling a face. "Everyone likes coffee, what am I saying?" and with that, she's looking at Coulson. "But, does he? It's also really, really strong. And I don't know his weight or his height or his blood type…"

Coulson sighs, "Classified. He's not supposed to drink it." However he shrugs his suited shoulders, "but… I'm sure I could make an exception."

Simmons nods, pointing at something in particular and looking up at the cabinet again. "After indigestion, I should be able to top him up with a general anaesthetic and then…"

The Agent fills in the blanks, he's not too happy about it. "I get to deal with a groggy former Ukrainian Special Forces Martial artist enthusiast."

"Who's an Ukrainian enthusiast?"

They all spin around to see no other then Skye stood leaning against the open doorway, arms folded, half amused. Simmons - God Bless and damn her - proves why she is not clear for combat and chimes in almost instantly. "He's an 0-8-4..." Realisation hits just as Coulson slams the palm of his hand onto his forehead. "Oh, Sorry!" Simmons too shows her annoyance with herself, though she slams a hand against her mouth, eyes wide.

Skye however is exited by the news, "No shit!" She grins moving further in and, upon seeing Coulson's face, raises her hands. "Hey, AC don't get your suit in a twist... I'll be quiet about it." He severely doubts this, but manages little more then a groan. "So..." Skye glances at the file with a frown, "We're going to Ukraine?"

May leaves the room, expression firm, per usual. "I'll set the flight route."

There comes the sound of shuffling paper, and Coulson just turns around fast enough to see Skye looking at the first page of the dossier. "Caesar Phillip Shevchenko." She smirks, nearly laughing, but Ward must be rubbing off on the girl because she manages to keep it in. "That's not very... subtle."

Coulson just shrugs again, he doesn't see much a of a problem with it. "I think it suits him," He states, before frowning. "Or I did at the time anyway."

Again, somethings are better unsaid. "Wait.. what?"

"I have paperwork to be doing." Coulson deadpans, "Simmons, can you get that done please?"

The woman is already mixing chemicals as they speak and she looks up with a half smile, "Of course."

Skye however, won't let it go and continues to trail him, eyes gleaming with that same desire-stubbornness that nearly - very nearly, makes him give up for the sake of his blood pressure. "Did you name a 0-8-4?" She asks and he just tires to walk faster.

It's no use.

"AC, you named a-"

"Named what?" Ward is standing in the corridor, eyebrow raised.

Coulson is starting to think having this many people on one plane is bad idea.

"I'm not doing this." He grumps, hands in the air as he tries to get to his office. "Not today."

* * *

**: 2134 HRS [Local Time] | 15, July | S.H.I.E.L.D. Biological Defence Centre, ****Chornohora Mountain Range, Western Ukraine** :

"Шевченко, we have a problem."

The voice that decides to announce such a fact is female - and, he realises, as blunt as a backside of a bloody gauss rifle. Shevchenko is not going to lie, it feels like one too. Pretty much on cue, he's jolted awake from his pre-supper nap and he very nearly responds by grabbing his revolver and shooting her in the face. Just like always, his hand wraps around the handgun's grip, but some part of him realises what is going on. He stops himself before his finger is even on the trigger.

Is it sad to say he's been expecting that particular statement for awhile?

It's not a reassuring thing, really. He's guarding a bloody Biological defence centre - Noah's Ark, but for country-crippling infectious diseases. If anything goes wrong, it's serious - but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. Shevchenko learn't that lesson a long time ago.

So no, he's not surprised when he hears this. Not at all.

He doesn't know what time it is and she should know better then to wake him up like this, so he frowns as he opens his eyes, sitting up straight in his chair and glaring. Perhaps she'll get the message and sought it out herself, or leave it for a more humane hour, but alas - the look on her face seems to suggest otherwise. Time to do his bloody job, it seems.

"Well, go on then." He grumps, it's uncomfortable speaking English, but the woman is an American and it took her long enough to learn how to pronounce his name properly.

"We have a plane asking for permission to land." She states and he leans back, eyebrow raised.

He decides to start of simple, "Is it the Ukrainian Government?"

"No."

"So it's S.H.E.I.L.D. then,"

"Yes..."

Exhaling, the level seven agent stands slowly, walking towards his desk and pulling the cork of a bottle of cheap supermarket-brand liquor. She makes a face but he ignores her, technically, he's not even here on record so the way he sees it, it's not an issue. "What are their reasons?"

She grimaces, "They say they need to refuel."

"Clearance?"

"High - level nine, but it's coming in from the Arctic." She's not fooling around today, because she grabs the bottle as he passes. "I wasn't supposed to inform you however, but..." She's nervous, something clearly has her spooked and Shevchenko does not like that. Really. He's hardly a patron of sunshine and moonbeams when she's happy, never mind tossing nervous. "It's American - they aren't supposed to be here, it's a blacksite."

Shevchenko sighs and looks at her, ok. This is pretty serious - but at the end of the day he's not the Security Chief here. That's Anderson. So this must be above his pay-grade if she's coming to him.

Sitting back down on his chair, the level seven agent folds one leg over another, hands tracing his beard slowly.

"Give them permission. Standard procedure... but, when they do arrive - assume I don't know. We never had this conversation." He pauses and then, as an afterthought waves his hand. "No access to the labs, no access to the offices - they say they are here to refuel, then they only need access to the above-ground buildings."

"Can you actually do that?" She asks, handing back the bottle slowly. He shrugs.

"Like you said - it's a blacksite. They shouldn't be here in the first place." Taking the bottle, he downs a good mouthful, wincing slightly. "I'll have words, but I can't promise anything."

"Thank you."

He half grins, "Це не проблема."

When she leaves, Shevchenko narrows his eyes, leaning back and slamming the bottle against the table with more force then what was strictly required. He doesn't like this. Not at all. Hand grabbing for his violin out of instinct, he rests it against his lap and plucks at the strings in thought. "Just what do you have planned this time, Fury?"

Is it sad to say that it's not the first time he has said that particular statement?

* * *

**: 2105 HRS [Local Time] | 15, July | [UNKNOWN Location], Arctic Ocean :**

The audio feed crackles as he listens to it, it's not that noticeable - but Coulson is used to fluid communications. Even when oversees, so calling it distracting is an understatement. He realises with a small grump, that Fury's recent coddling has left him spoiled. Perhaps spending time in a washout Ukrainian blacksite will help. He hopes so. As much as he cherishes the sheer... normality of it all, Coulson is an Agent. It's bad to be dependent on things.

Still. It's not that bad, at least he knows Ukrainian.

_"...Not many agents play music..."_ A pause, slight twanging sounds.

_"I had plenty of time to practice."_ Laughter, a small chuckle - Coulson recognises the voice.

Then various suspicious noises are overheard, subtle rustles, shifting people. _"Do you hear that noise?" _

Hesitation, _"Yes."_ And then movement.

The images are pretty shoddy, blurry black and white images, but Coulson can see someone moving over towards the right hand corner of the screen. Two other figures look at him, evidently concerned. _"Well. You see something, Shevchenko?"_ One of the men - he can't really tell, says. He knew which one was Shevchenko was. Like the other agent said, not many agents play an instrument.

Shevchenko seems to hesitate, _"Stay here. I'll give you a shout if I find something. Radio back if I do." _A subtle sound of hesitation, whoever did so was close to the security camera. _"Relax, Comrade. I just want to take a look."_

More movement, one of the men asks him to hurry back. Coulson knows the level of clearance required to know who Shevchenko is - and it's high - but he can't help but feel surprised at the fact they they are, well, _worried_. They should be - it's a blacksite, but it's still surprising none the least.

But, Shevchenko is not the same agent he was five years ago.

Coulson grimaces. That leads to an uncomfortable thought.

"_Sort out that radio, will you comrade?"_

_"Give us the flashlight."_ Movement, a clasp of metal - he moves out.

Then everything speeds up, "_Fuck! Shoot!"_ ... nothing, _"Shevchenko? Shevchenko?! You still alive?"_

Laughter rips through the speakers and Coulson knows, because Shevchenko never laughs unless it really is something. He's usually quite reserved. Someone shouts something, angry - but he can't make out the words, he's too focused on the details. Shevchenko's laughter is hard to hear - he's far away.

_"-There are aliens here! Lock and load, gentlemen. It's like New York all over again!"_ A snort and soon, the third figure is back in the camera lens. _"Caught Ralf with his pants down - nearly blew his fucking head off though! He was finding a place to-"_ The man is interrupted by a stooping smaller man, Coulson looks down at his files, but he can't get a good enough reference. Ralf... Ralf... another pause and he grabs a file, Ralf Cameron?

_"Allright, allright."_ Embarrassment, Coulson glances up at the screen. "_Yes no need to tell them,"_ He skims through. Former Homeland Security... quite the fall from grace... _"How did you find me, anyway?"_

He looks up at that, eyeing the screen closely. He can see the faint figure of Shevchenko sitting back down again, interestingly, he doesn't come up with the 'usual explanation' but rather deflects it.

_"What was that, Comrade?" _

Coulson looks down at the files again, frowning at the thickest of them all.

"_Oh, I just heard you."_

As the crackling sound of the violin makes it's self known, Coulson leans back on his chair, picking up one of his ornaments and tossing it from palm to palm slowly in thought. There is a knock at this door and he stops, slamming down on the pause button. May comes in soon afterwards, looking mildly concerned.

"We have permission to land - but we have restrictions. No underground access, and it's being described as a S.H.E.I.L.D. Eastern Barracks, not a blacksite. Either they know, or something else is amiss."

Coulson frowns, "Did you tell them?"

"No." May mirrors his frown, if only slightly. "You're worried."

He looks back at the blurry figure on the screen. "He'll know something. It's been four, nearly five years - planes don't land on his site without a reason."

She pauses, moving forwards and grabbing the file, flicking it over towards his picture, she studies it for a long time. "He's a..." She pauses to make the right description, looking at Coulson for a moment, as if the answer is written on his face. "A man," She decides on this, nodding. "He's a man now."

Coulson just nods, "How long do we have left?"

"Should take no longer then ten hours."

"_Great_."


	2. Washout

**[**THE**LAST**MAN**STANDING]**

* * *

00**2**:  
WASH**OUT**

* * *

**: 1324 HRS [Local Time] | 10, August | [UNMAPPED Location], Chornohora Mountain Range, Western Ukraine :  
: 15 Years, 00 Months, 00 Days Ago :**

_"Where are you going?" Hill squints up at him through the lenses of her sunglasses, eyebrow perfectly arched._

_Coulson doesn't bother with dodging the matter - he's supposed to be watching him, but he is not there - it's simple really. His job. Though he dreads to think what Fury has got planned for him in the future if 'Babysitting' is his current job description. Hill had told him to stop being so paranoid, that it's hardly 'Babysitting' when it's a 0-8-4. "Going to see about my Boy," He mutters as he ambles across the pale gravelled ground slowly. _

_будинок відпочинку is still under construction but the majority of the over-ground buildings have long since been completed. Coulson rounds a corner towards the base's garage and pauses, squinting into the shade. He saw the Boy venture through here... so where on earth... _

_Something clanks behind him and Coulson spins around on his heels, as soon as he takes a step however, said Boy appears out of seemingly nowhere and directly underfoot. Because he's not expecting it and he's half terrified of squashing the child, he winds up tripping over him and sprawled on his back. Sharp edged rocks dig into the small of his back and he can idly hear Hill barking out with laughter further down the runway. Coulson is just about to get up when he seems him, standing directly over, blocking out the sun._

_"Look!" Little Caesar Shevchenko thrusts something slimy into his face, so close that through his sunglasses, Coulson can't even tell what on earth it is. Cursing under his breath - because he has morals, and Coulson is NOT taking the blame when the boy ultimately cusses the wrong person unintentionally - the fallen agent squirms backwards and away._

_He sits up, blinking to let the object come into better focus - and he wishes he hadn't. _

_"Dammit Junior," Coulson grimaces attempting to move further back, but Caesar is pretty damn determined. "Get that frog out of my face."_

_How the boy managed to find a bloody frog, on a mountain, within the walls of a blacksite, Coulson will never know. Or, rather he does know... perhaps... he had been told of what the boy was capable of. _

_Caesar just grins, pushing it further into his face, waving it around. "It's t'biggest most ginormousest!" He states as Coulson attempts to get back up again, he gets as far as pushing himself onto his knees. "An' I found, F'll. I found it!" The little demon chuckles manically and he can just about hear Hill chastising him for cussing in front of a five-year-old. _

_It's not his fault - and the boy called Fury "сердитий стара пірат" to his _face_, so really. Coulson is not the one she should be yelling at. __Standing slowly, he brushes off his suit to the best of his ability, purses his lips and regards Caesar for a moment._

_Then he turns, "Go show Hill. I'm pretty sure she loves frogs."_

_The Boy runs along before him and the sight of Hill backing away with a high-pitched squeal is enough to make him crack a grin. _

_"H'll 'ammit, Look!"_

* * *

**: 0403 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | S.H.I.E.L.D. Biological Defence Centre, ****Chornohora Mountain Range, Westeren Ukraine** :  
: PRESENT DAY :

His eyes snap open at the supposed moment of impact, but of course - there is none. There never was and, likely, never will be.

This doesn't stop him from sitting bolt upright, jolting himself violently awake as his hand slips under his head for the cold, familiar touch of his revolver however. He expects them all to be there; the fiery aftermaths of a recent explosion, the heavy, loud ringing in his ears, the weight of someone's body across his stomach, the fifteen or so H.Y.D.R.A soldiers burning in the wreckage before him. The world tilts nauseatingly when his arm flies upwards and his heart thunders furiously in his chest.

Agent Caesar Shevchenko very nearly fires a whole cylinder into his apartment wall, but while five years of uncontrollable nightmares can startle him into unwarranted self-defence - a decade of training can stop him pulling the trigger just as easily. He's dropped the revolver against his lap before he even considers firing, still sat upright, dully staring forwards. He'd fallen asleep where he had decided to collapse three hours earlier. Sprawled inelegantly all over the dignified crates of ammunition and bandages. When he yawns, he feels the angry crease embedded against his temple from where his head had rested against the edge. Like some weird, Frankenstein welt.

Breathing out slowly, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent blinks, awareness still splintered with flashing half images and heightened senses. It's still dark out, but, as he brings his arm up to squint at the luminescent lights on his wristwatch, he notes that it actually won't be for much longer. With this realisation, he relaxes and swings both his legs off the side of the crate, into his boots.

He was still in his uniform, but that often is the case. Nobody will bother him about his rumbled appearance at four AM in the morning. Grabbing his revolver and pulling on his cap, Shevchenko yawns again as he slips outside.

будинок відпочинку was essentially designed to look like an abandoned holiday resort from satellite. His part of the base, everything above ground and therefore nicknamed "The Grounds" is home to the security detail and just about anyone else who wasn't a scientist or a doctor. In the building properly was the elevators, and it was these elevators that led down into the Biological Defence Centre, and because nicknames seemed to be something of a trend here, that was known as "The Underground". Hidden away in the mountain, like some kind of secret, James Bond villain hideout.

Shevchenko never often ventures down there, he doesn't need to. It's Anderson's territory - that and he and the folks downstairs never really got along.

Something to do with him blowing up their microwave.

Again, he doesn't need to go down there. It's naught but shelves and lab tables anyway.

The men and woman on guard move along the roof slowly and some of them on the ground patrolling the fences glance in his direction as he makes his way down the runway. It's hardly even a runway, more of a strip of cracked concentrate with peeling yellow paint, but he's been told it's a runway and, with recent events in mind, he's willing to stretch as far. The first dregs of sunlight bounce off the grey reinforced shutters, casting the area a dull monotone hue.

Aside from these things, the base is dead.

Shevchenko's 'apartment' as he's taken to calling it, was a one room storage area towards the edge of the base. He only has to pass a few buildings before he reaches the scruffy area right up near the security fence. It's high, reinforced with concrete blocks at the bottom and barbed-wire loops at the top. It's also electrified twenty four hours a day, with it's own septate generator (with five auxiliaries, just in case that one blows.) so if a black out ever occurred, security wasn't completely busted. However, it's not completely full proofed, nor electrified. One section of the fence is actually non-live, because there is a water pipe that runs under it and S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently, doesn't like it when water and electricity mix.

It's a design flaw and a half, but considering how the people in the village a few miles away don't even realise their existence - he hardly expects anyone else too. Fifteen years it has been and the only visitors have been the occasional upper, scientists, doctors and the monthly supply drop.

It's this non-electrified part of fence that Shevchenko leans against, fingers grasping at the loops as he idly drags against a plastic S.H.I.E.L.D. made E-Cigarette. None of the toxins, thrice the nicotine. Made for him because his brain is hyper-susceptible to addictive substances and he was stupid enough to try a cigarette when he was fourteen. Up until now, it had been the patches, but they simply don't work anymore.

0-8-4, right. _Whatever_.

With that pleasant thought in mind, Shevchenko crinkles the bridge of his nose grimly, watching as the sun slowly crawls up behind the jagged mountainside before him. A brisk breeze pushes against his features, immediately chilling the skin that was exposed. Disturbed, clumps of hair fall down onto his forehead, clinging gleefully.

He doesn't bother to push them away. Just watches and drags, then exhales. Then does the whole process again.

Every morning Shevchenko awakes at sunrise. Why, he doesn't exactly know but it's one of _those_ habits that proved to be downright unbreakable. Even during the bad days - the slow, tediously difficult days on the Helicarrier after the Antarctic Incident, when he couldn't often concentrate enough to remember his own name, he had woken up with the sun. Some part of his subconscious would note the time, somehow, and he'd be up. It never often mattered what happened before, if he had been drunk, hurt or otherwise indisposed. If it was dawn - it was time to get up.

He's past the point of caring. It used to annoy him quite a bit, but here at будинок відпочинку the whole idea just turned out to be a distraction. Something else to occupy his mind for a few minutes, before the rest of the day dully rolls on forwards.

Oh the fun and joys of being a S.H.I.E.L.D. washout.

"Shevchenko!"

The man himself winces, turning his head to stare as the _highly_-esteemed Agent Paul Anderson comes thundering towards him with the sound of clinking protective body armour and clumping boots.

If Western Ukraine - scrap that - if the whole sodding world had earmuffs, they would wear them for the many and often unpredictable times Anderson decides to bellow like a fog horn. Usually, the person he is not-so-subtly addressing has done nothing wrong. Nothing terribly wrong anyway. So what if Shevchenko had shoved a handful of snow down the man's jumper last winter? It was funny and hell, he could do a lot, lot worse. That doesn't mean he deserves to have his name yelled out three times a day.

Well, that's what Shevchenko thinks anyway, but Director Fury tells him that it is entirely deserved.

The level seven agent happens to be thinking of something very profound before the sound of his name comes screeching across the runway. Mainly philosophy and existentialism theories and fabrications that he's read about in strange books written by Russians. He had told someone about those books before, actually and somehow wound up with a S.H.I.E.L.D therapist afterwards. Linda, her name was. She preached about how he shouldn't be depressed about life and how he should come to accept his job for what it was, seeing all the good and hope that it brings, rather then the bad.

What she never seemed to understand however, was that Shevchenko is trained to off himself in at least nine different ways when captured all for the sake of said happy, rainbow spewing job. So why someone was surprised, that his attitude was a little dark, he'll never know.

"I wish I were deaf." He mutters as he turns around and leans back against the fence again, arms folded and eyebrow raised. His Royal Paulie-ness comes up with his fists bunched and his chin jerked upwards and the man stops at a three feet distance, seething.

"Добрий день, Андерсон." Shevchenko greets, removing the E-Cigarette in a relatively calm and collected fashion. Anderson just continues to scowl, he hates it when the Ukrainians talk in anything but English. Some part of Shevchenko wonders if it's because the man seems to think it's a imminent sign of revolution. That he and his former Airmobile Force pals are all going to dump sticks and revolt, or something equally stupid. Of course, the concern is genuine - they are guarding something potentially dangerous after all, but it's no less annoying.

"There is a plane inbound for the base." Anderson sates, accusing Shevchenko with his eyes.

Shevchenko makes a thoughtful noise, "That quickly?" He frowns. "That's... concerning - no plane should be able to get through Ukraine's security that quickly."

"So it was you who gave the permission to land!" Anderson nearly moves forwards, but another quirk of the brow stops him. Anderson might not know Shevchenko's background, but he knows something is going on with him. He's not as stupid as he looks and quite frankly, Shevchenko is to lazy to demonstrate. "How many times-"

"They are of a higher clearance, Anderson." Shevchenko spits, "What did you expect me to do? Deny them?"

"It's a blacksite!"

"And they clearly already knew about it beforehand." He shrugs, "I've put limitations on their visit, but they are also above my paygrade." With that, he snarls, slamming his E-Cigarette back into his mouth. The plastic scrapes against his incisors and he pushes himself from off of the fence. "When are they landing?"

"Half an hour." Anderson grits out.

"Well get back Underground-" Suddenly, without any warning there is the slow build up of a wail. Both Shevchenko and Anderson spin around towards the main building, hands on their weapons. The wail turns into a sudden plaintive scream, monotonously rhythmic, but it pierces the air around them and violently kicks them into action.

The siren was going off.

Shevchenko is already grabbing his radio too, he holds down the button with his thumb, grimacing as he runs. "Lisa, tell me this is a fucking drill!"

No response, just static.

"Бог чорт забирай!" He turns towards Anderson, "I can't get-" He doesn't manage to speak the rest of his sentence.

Because the building explodes.


	3. Environmental Malfunction

**[**THE**LAST**MAN**STANDING]**

* * *

00**3:  
**ENVIRONMENTAL**MALFUNCTION**

* * *

**: 0512 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | S.H.I.E.L.D. Biological Defence Centre, ****Chornohora Mountain Range, Westeren Ukraine** :

Because of the sheer nature of будинок відпочинку they do not go straight into the main building. Once the explosion had calmed and the ground had stopped shaking, those who were outside - and survived - ran over towards the armoury. It wasn't just for the weapons, while there was no doubt that they would probably need them - they'd need HazMat Suits even more. The Biological Defence Centre was considered to have the S.H.I.E.L.D. equivalent of a Biosafety level 4, which meant Level 1 grade suits for all personnel, which more or less was close to the USA's Level A. For obvious reasons, these suits were held in a air-locked corridor perpendicular to the armoury, and it's this location that they run towards. With boots pounding against the laminate flooring in unison with the others, Shevchenko rounds the corner with an aggressive amount of force, the double doors slamming as he barges into them. There are fifteen men out of an original twenty eight night-time-guarding shift left.

There had been seven on the roof, but Shevchenko is trying his hardest not to think about them.

Jamming his keycard into the reader, all fifteen men move into the vacuum room, then into a shower room. It's all safety precautions and no sooner then he's had to insert the key-card a third time, they are in the armoury proper moving towards their gear in a calm but urgent sense of order. Shevchenko moves further down the line until he comes across his spot; a open locker looking containment unit with the words "C. Shevchenko" engraved upon the boarder. Another swipe of the keycard and the transparent plastic shielding pushes upwards, giving him access.

The difference between a Security and Lab personnel's HazMat suit is purely aesthetic; Security is navy, Lab is white. The head to foot garment comes first, but is only sealed once the breathing apparatus is in place, alongside the emergency back up supply and communications gear. Everyone practices suiting up at least five times a month, Security also have to do so under live fire sometimes. Simply because while a man may survive a fire fight - chances are he won't survive exposure to a few thousand spores of _whateverthehell_ they have in those blasted labs. It takes them no longer then thirty seconds on average and Shevchenko feels the suit pressurizing at the thirty two second mark. By the time he is reaching for the weapons rack, his suit is completely airtight.

_"...Environmental Malfunction... Laboratory Section A, B, C, E, F - Level Four Subsection Nine... All Laboratory Chiefs, Please report in... Evacuate affected areas immediately... This is Not a Drill... Environmental Malfunction... Laboratory Section, A, B, C, E, F - Level Four Subsection Nine... All Lab-"_

The men line up and Shevchenko finds Anderson waiting for him at the head of the line.

"They've taken down communications - but Bell had managed to get a warning out." Even before he had finished saying it, Shevchenko felt his Security and HazMat radio completely pancake, none of the computers were online either, disconnected from the network. Who had managed to do this, to S.H.I.E.L.D. 'ware - blacklist too, he didn't want to know.

... but, he can have an educated guess.

"We need to go, back up team is en route as we speak - what section will they be after?" One man asks and Shevchenko grabs a combat rifle from the rack. This is another product developed by S.H.I.E.L.D. Instead of firing bullets it fires flechettes, .303 calibre fin-stabilized projectiles separating from a discarding sabot. Nasty things, much faster and powerful then conventional bullets. The only real downsides are the incredibly small magazine of 20 rounds and the reloading procedure, which is unusual and tedious to say the least. The entire forward of the rifle hinges near the muzzle to expose an internal loading port, into which the magazine is inserted. Following loading, the rifle is closed up and the cocking handle on the left side is rotated clockwise. You have to be familiar with the rifle to be any good using it - something that most people, realistically, are not. Fitting the strap comfortably against his shoulder, he grimaces. Not that they would be able to tell.

"Depends," Shevchenko grunts. "Sections A, B, C are hemorrhagic. The rest of them apply to one individual strain, research into cures - all spores are locked in the MORGUE."

"Locked down?"

"Power is still on despite the communication knock out - deadlocked, it's not opening until the whole system is essentially re-set." Another man replies.

Shevchenko nods, tucking his rifle under one arm and grabbing it. "Lets not give them chance, Ground team A with me, B with Anderson. The rest of you split into fireteams and go in through shipping." Inserting a magazine slowly, he closes the rifle by cocking the handle and then, checks the 9mm pistol at his side. "We don't know the scale of the damage, so A'll go through the main entrance and B through the back - shoot any non-personnel on sight."

"You heard the man, give no quarter."

Shevchenko glances across at the two Security Personnel on his team, both of whom now had their rifles. "Agent Bilicki," The shortest male re-introduces himself. Shevchenko knows who he is of course, but it's hard to put a name to a face when they are hidden behind a full hooded reflective window. Regardless, through process of elimination, Markovich was the slightly taller male. A single nod between the three and they are moving, nearly half bent, checking sixes and corners. The sun is just peaking over the security fence when they get outside, the massive cloud of charcoal black smoke getting blown in a southerly direction. "Feds will be here soon." Bilicki states and Shevchenko hardens his jaw.

"We'll have to make it quick, how long will it take for the back up to arrive?"

"ETA forty seven minutes, we heard."

"Ah- Лайно!"

"You said it, Sir." Markovich grumps, "Six is clear."

"Hold position until B gets into place."

Half hidden behind the wall that surrounds the barracks, Shevchenko looks out across the Ground, it's eerily quiet, nobody is around. "Someone's hit the security net hard."

"External?"

"Possibly, I'm no Stark, товариш."

Markovich becomes sullen, "Terrorists?" He starts to look around.

"I don't know." Shevchenko swallows, there comes a flash of navy across in the far right of his peripheral vision and he signals the men forwards. "Right, enough. Maintain radio silence until contact is confirmed." He checks to make sure his name is printed on the sides of suit before moving in, if they came face to face with B any time soon, chances are they'll see the bright yellow name before anything - meaning they won't shoot. Seeing that the yellow stickers hadn't come off in a chemical wash made him feel a lot better. When they moved in on the building, they became a lot more tense. He figured it was only a matter of time before whoever did this made their presence known.

Neither man had to wait long.

Because it's just how he is, Shevchenko notices them before any of the others do. He sweeps his gaze across the massive cracks in the rooftop, then across the upper balconies of the resort. The explosive must have been close to the far right wall, because there is a vast open space where the canteen used to be. Five figures move along slowly, looking around. They too wore HazMat suits, though their's were jet black. Typical. It would make shooting at them with all this smoke much more difficult.

They hadn't yet got into the Labs... perhaps the upper levels had felt the shock and hadn't suffered an actual failure.

He can only hope.

Taking cover over by the secretary's desk, Shevchenko crouches, rifle clutched hard. As he adjusts his path towards them, he sped up, feeling the tight pressure in his skull. The inner need to fall back on his natural talents was tempting beyond belief, but he knows the risks and at this moment in time, they are far to high. He flashes a warning sign at the two others and, once they see through the smoke, they respond, finding cover. Blurring between the smoke and the banister, Shevchenko moves towards the supposed hostiles at an angle, his rifle held out in front of him, unfalteringly tracking one of them as he moves double bent. Markovich knelt behind an overturned drinks machine, aiming his rifle at another one of the attackers. Bilicki follows his lead and ducks down behind the stairwell.

Suddenly the radio in his helmet flickers to life and Shevchenko stops his movement.

_"...BDC Command, this is CXD 23 Airborne Mobile Command Station S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6. Do you read?"_

Shevchenko signals for the other two to slow down, making sure he can't be overheard.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6, this is Agent Caesar Shevchenko, be advised BDC is under potential terrorist attack. Requesting back up, five possible suspects Main Building 01 - major building damage with potential Bio-hazardous content, over."

_"Acknowledged Agent. Containment of terrorists advised, over." _The voice on the other end of the radio sounded completely upsuprised and very professional. _"All ground unites be aware, confirmed H.Y.D.R.A. action in progress. S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6 is en route, ETA five minutes."_

"Negative, 6-1-6. Runway cannot be confirmed obstruction free." Shevchenko grimaces, "Stay airborne, I repeat - Stay airborne, over."

Though he will admit, Shevchenko did feel better knowing that back up was indeed on the way. He glances over the desk again, watching them. That dangerously automatic part of his mind running possible scenarios, trying to decide on a course of action. One of the attackers turned, looked in his direction and although neither man can see through the reflective windows, it seemed like they locked eyes. The attacker raised their rifle to their shoulder and fired, all in one smooth motion. The building exploded with noise.

"Contact! Contact!" One of the men shouts and they all burst into action, firing up at the attackers. Shevchenko had already realised the threat and had dived out of the way, sliding behind the same vending machine as Markovich. He had been squatting behind for a millisecond before he came to the conclusion that nothing here would present much of a barrier against the rifles these people were using. Grunting, the agent hurled himself to his feet and sprinted perpendicular to them, through the smoke and he fired without hesitation. The rifle buckled in his arms, flechette rounds tearing through the banister near the, now confirmed, H.Y.D.R.A forces. The one he had been aiming at was sprawled across the ground, rolling out of the way of the burst through the smoke. Shevchenko skidded to a halt and changed direction, vaulting over a desk to get towards the stairwell quicker and thundering up the stairs double bent. Bullets whiz overhead and in response, he brings his rifle up, firing blind.

Once he was on the balcony, a sixth individual spun around in surprise. They had been trying to get into the sealed doorway of the stairwell that led down into the Underground. Shevchenko fires automatically, breathing the recycled air inside his suit hard, making his lungs ache. His burst hits the man in the arm and the attacker shrugs his bloody arm, firing back. The agent dodged sideways, into an open doorway.

"Target acquired!" One of them suddenly shouts, making Shevchenko frown. Target?

The labs when't their target?

Then-

_Oh_.

He winches so hard, some part of his subconscious worries about permanently denting his face.

Oh god.

"You are cleared for lethal force." He can hear them shouting and when Shevchenko sticks his head out, about seven more H.Y.D.R.A hostiles fire upon his position, he snarls, ducks behind the wall again. "Target is on southern side of the lower balcony."

_"Ебать мене..."_

* * *

**: 0532 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | [Untracable Location], ****Chornohora Mountain Range, Westeren Ukraine** :

The first one to warn them is Fitz.

"Sir, you might want to hear this-"

"Fitz not now," Coulson is furiously swatting the holographic touch screen, he looks towards Ward. "What did he just say?"

The bigger male looks up, pulling half of the headset off to hear him properly, he grimaces. "He said not to land,"

"What!"

"The runway might not be clear."

"Crap, can someone get a visual on that?"

"On it."

Because Fitz knows what is at stake, he transfers the necessary data onto his portable tablet and moves towards Coulson. "Sir?"

"I need that visual Simmons-"

"_Sir_."

"_Yes_, Fitz."

He doesn't pause for dramatic tension, he's pretty sure the situation will provide it regardless of how he verbally puts it.

"The Lab isn't their target," He shows the Senior Agent the tablet, clasping his hands nervously when it's taken. "But Shevchenko _is_."

* * *

**: 0533 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | S.H.I.E.L.D. Biological Defence Centre, ****Chornohora Mountain Range, Westeren Ukraine** :

It doesn't take long for it to kick in. If anything, after twenty years, it's actually become easier to unintentionally trigger - only this time, it's very intentional. It helps to keep a steady pulse rate, so he starts to take deep breaths. Bullets hammer into the plaster above and around him, but he pays them no mind. There comes a furious command over the radio - he recognises the voice, but the impatient, methodical monster pounding at the back of his skull doesn't want him to notice.

_"-Vchenko do you read?"_

It starts to take over, for a moment it feels like he's falling. Sudden vertigo.

Another bullet flies through the plaster.

So he ducks.

_"Agent Shevchenko this is S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6, I repeat, do you read?!"_

An exhale. For a moment it feels like he's out of his own body, no... down but not out. It feels... right, but he knows for a genuine fact that it's wrong. Like his skull is being stretched, or shrunk. Wrenched out of his own skin then stuffed back in all at once. It doesn't hurt - no, that comes afterwards, but it's still uncomfortable. He supposes that, it feels like he's being possessed. It's weird.

Guess it's part of his 0-8-4 charm.

It takes a moment for the Omnicompetence Factor to get a proper grip, because there will always be some part of him that fights. Some human, less then calculative Caesar who want's to stay in control. No matter what happens however, it gets pushed aside and for some reason that's the worst part of it all. The Factor doesn't fit, for lack of better explanation. During these moments of not-quite-control, his fingers spasm and they don't do what he tells them, among other things, and it makes him sick. There is a difference between a reasonable human's mind and the analytical, systematic mind of the Omnicompetence Factor. Things that he was feeling before; anger, hurt, rage, shame, guilt. Failure. It's replaced. Discarded.

With a jerk of the chin and a gasping half grunt, he knows that steely, flintlock grey eyes have brightened. A flash, blinding insight, nightmares and a slam of sudden judgement - it's never easy - and he's yanked forwards with a bone crushing force, his limbs shaking, not so much that it is noticeable, but they are thrumming with invasion. It's not all that bad, really.

Because it's happened before.

So he let's it, let's it take control.

_"Shevchenko be advised, hosti-"_

"I know." It's not his voice, not really. It's smoother, clipped. Older.

Slamming another magazine into his rifle with practised efficiency, he's moving out from the doorway rapidly. Markovich was back-pedalling fast, running down the balcony, his pistol firing every second or so. Taking his left Shevchenko selects one of the seven H.Y.D.R.A. hostiles and fires his rifle, bursts aiming at where they where going to be, rather then where they were. They keep this up, an exchange of live rounds, dodging and weaving, blurring between furniture as they fired. Eventually Shevchenko loses sight of Markovich as he ducks behind a door frame, reloading. So he moves forwards again, half ducking behind the banister, bullet holes appearing in the wall behind him. He turns as he breaks into a run, the rifle coming up in one hand, the muzzle jerking slightly.

The H.Y.D.R.A. hostile does not move fast enough and Shevchenko beings the butt of his rifle against the man's face. The force cracks open the reflective window and while this is happening, his free hand goes towards his 9mm, gripping it firmly, sliding it out, finger on the trigger.

Two shots ring out over the heavy thuds of rifle fire, thirteen hostiles drop to twelve.

Changing direction suddenly, he skidded, slamming into the nearby wall with enough force free powdered plaster, the carpet below him was red - it should be beige. The smoke giving him cover, he glances out past the corner to see the nearest hostile running in his direction at full speed. If he was perceiving this in a normal fashion, Shevchenko would have freaked - but all he does here is just move in, rifle buckling as he suddenly backs down the balcony, another magazine clattered to the floor empty and another fresh one snapped in. More bursts shattered into the concrete and the H.Y.D.R.A. hostile that was stupid enough to follow him crumples down when said flechettes embedded in his stomach.

"Bodycount." He orders and the radio flickers.

_"One."_ Markovich grunts.

Bilicki's radio sounds more like a haze of static. _"I have yet to confirm."_

"Acknowledged."

Nine hostiles left, more or less.

He snaps to attention when someone moves further up, through the thick smoke he suddenly stops moving backwards and explodes forwards in a dizzying change of direction. The H.Y.D.R.A hostile that had come to re-take his friend's position falters when he sees Shevchenko running towards him, turning to come down the other stairwell directly ahead. His rifle slid around, the strap sending it clattering against the thick kevlar-lined rubbery plastic on his back, magnets clamping it into place.

Shevchenko grins, white teeth flashing in the contained gloominess of his HazMat suit.

His left fist exploded into the hostile's chest with all the power and technique he could muster, hardened PPE met hardened PPE and the man groaned in agony, staggering backwards, his rifle spitting out bullets in odd directions. Shevchenko sends out a kick, but the hostile just had enough time to catch his leg - not that it mattered, Shevchenko during the throws of the Omnicompetence Factor saw it coming and slammed a punch into the man's neck with speed. The man's entire head snapped around, sending him staggering back over the banister. Shevchenko paused just long enough to give him a little shove, helping him on his way.

He continued to sprint down the stairs, drawing his pistol and firing into the smoke. Some part of him realises that his hands were shaking a lot more, alongside the developing throbs at the sides of his temple. It's been five minutes and seven seconds - exhaustion period typically starts at the forty five minute mark, anything more then that and he's venturing into comatose territory. Spinning rapidly, he catches the hostile trying to sneak up on him - the frenzied automatic part of Shevencho's subconscious having heard his footsteps - his pistol roaring as he suppresses the hell out of that general area. The men on the main floor began to react and through the noise, he can hear the ping of flechette rounds. Anderson's team was here. Took them long enough.

_"Confirmed kill."_ Someone mutters over the radio, _"What's your total?"_

"Three, going on four." Shevchenko responds, looking over his shoulder when H.Y.D.R.A forces below him begin to note his position.

"._..BDC Ground Team, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier Command Centre, forward dash 45-35-B. Do you copy over?"_

"Affirmative, I copy. Over."

"_This is an order - evacuate the BDC imminently, self destruct protocols have been systematized. Do you read, Ground Team? Self destruct protocols have been systematized."_

"Лайно, what about the Underground team?"

_"All Lab personnel are in the process of evacuation Ground team, over."_

Well, at least there is that.

Grimacing as he ploughs through the furniture on the ground floor, Shevchenko throws himself over a nearby table for cover. "Command, negative on evacuation, over."

_"Ground tea-"_

"I said negative!" Rounds fly into the wall behind him and Shevchenko growls, ducking further down. "We are under heavy fire, I repeat. Heavy fire!" There is a pause and he can idly hear the channels being moved around. A pair of windowed HazMat suits turn to look at him and Shevchenko grabs his rifle again, he only has one magazine left and upon realisation, he swears.

This was worse then the Arctic Incident.

Behind him, back where he had surprised the H.Y.D.R.A hostile, he hard the distinct sonic boom of a gauss pistol, spinning again he faces one of the hunters - he wasn't alone any more. There were three of them standing by the top of the staircase, looking like clones with their identical suits. If he wasn't going through the Omnicompetence Factor a sick, angry feeling would have probably settled in his stomach. They had him dead to rights, but none of them fired. A mistake. Shevchenko is running along, the rubber boots slamming furiously against the ground floor's tiles as he rips his rifle up, firing bursts. He let out the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding and came to the eventual conclusion that Anderson's team would come up from the right staircase - judging by their current path. Witch ultimately meant that Shevchenko had to deal with the H.Y.D.R.A on the ground floor. Like expected, Anderson's squad began to turn and headed up the stairs.

Through the mass confusion of the live fire and smoke, Shevchenko sets his sights on the nearest hostile and moves into a half crouch. Once he gets far enough, he brings the rifle up onto his shoulder and fires, bursts cutting through the air and ripping through the man's back. Another small burst and he falls forwards, slumping over the furniture he was using for cover.

His rifle clicks, so he tosses it over his head and across the floor, grabbing his pistol.

"Anderson did you get that?"

_"Affirmative."_ The radio replies.

"Markovich?" Shevchenko fires upon a hostile half hidden behind a double doorway, the bullets cutting through the smoke. There is no reply on the radio. "Markovich, do you read?!"

Bilicki's radio cuts it. _"Negative, sir."_

"Ah- Лайно, Лайно, Лайно!" He fires again, tilting his pistol over to the left slightly when the hostile makes to move. One bullet bounces of the HazMat's outer plating with a dull thunk, but the two others embed themselves in. Another three pulls of the trigger results in a similar effect. "Basara? Machnik?"

_"Present."_

_"Affirmitate."_

"дуже добре - Machnik on me, two hostile on the ground floor, at my four. Anderson there are three on the balcony, intercept, over." Looking over the room again, Shevchenko's head snaps in various directions, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. He feels Machnik at his shoulder, then the man moves over towards his four, eyes peeled. Seemingly without warning one of the two hostiles comes hurdling over a nearby bench, spraying bullets at everything in his wake. Shevchenko is first to move, his heightened senses pushing him along rapidly. Machnik too moves, abilt slower and takes cover, he just looks over when he pauses, because quite frankly, the former Airmobile soldier had never seen anything like it in his entire life.

If he was a descriptive man, he'd assume it was poetry in motion. Shevchenko suddenly vaulted over the nearby desk, twisting in mid air like a diver, pistol firing. The H.Y.D.R.A soldier staggered backwards, blood splattering across the floor behind him, Shevchenko then landed heavily, rolled and snapped a kick at the man. The crunch of the man's compressing kevlar-lined suit was muffled by the roar of gunfire, as was the sickening noise that followed when the limp body made when it finally landed. The level seven agent then pirouetted and fired again at someone he couldn't see. When Machnik moves to cover him, Shevchenko turns, seems to consider him for a moment before rapidly moving. Sidestepping faster then the Airmobile soldier thought possible, and without warning, sending his arm forwards into the cloud of smoke, grabbing a H.Y.D.R.A soldier by the back of his suit, smashing the butt of his handgun into the man's faceplate repeatedly. Stunned, the hostile didn't put up much of a fight when Shevchenko uses him as a human shield.

Bullets rip through the air around them and Shevchenko begins to advance slowly, handgun gripped above him - unconventional body armour in place with a tight grip.

The smoke continues to shift, one man falls - a scream, the constant radio chatter and both S.H.I.E.L.D. agents continue to fire at the remaining hostiles. H.Y.D.R.A seemed to have gone on the defensive, moving around so they where all in one corner. Somehow during the advance, Shevchenko separates from Machnik and the two continue to hail bullets down on the remaining forces. The smoke is clearer in this part of the room and after, somehow, spotting a hostile from where he was hiding, Shevchenko fires the remainder of his magazine. One bullet flies and smashes straight into the window of his target's suit.

_"Be warned, Ground team. Hostile reinforcements inbound."_

"Don't they kn-"

_"Negative."_

"Well. Copy that, Command."

Machnik pops his head up and across the threshold, Shevchenko turned to look at him. He didn't even look around, just stared straight. The man swallowed and his radio clatters, a faint sense of disbelief growing into a genuine sense of the surreal. Shevchenko looks towards the H.Y.D.R.A forces again, then he turns on a booted heel towards the back exit, towards what used to be the canteen. He exhales, "Command, ETA of the destruction sequence?"

_"Once initiated, T-Minus forty five seconds, Ground team."_

"And the Lab Personnel?"

There comes a different voice over the radio, _"This is CXD 35 Airborne S.H.I.E.L.D. 5-3-2, all Underground personnel are on-board, repeat, all personnel are on-board."_

"Copy that, 5-3-2." Shevchenko signals towards Machnik and the man runs towards him double bent. "Ground team, this is fireteam A to fireteam B. Evacuate, I repeat - evac to 5-3-2, what is your position?"

_"Currently held on the south end of the runway, Ground team."_

Anderson's radio crackles, _"Copy that, moving out."_

Shevchenko slams his handgun into Machnik's chest, "Go with fireteam A, that's an order - Machnik-"

"Sir-"

"GO."

The man doesn't hestate, but he does look over his shoulder when he runs. Shevchenko meanwhile bolts away towards what used to be the canteen, boots dully sonorous against the tiles, his large suited form cutting through the smoke as he runs. He was vaguely aware of the H.Y.D.R.A forces trailing him, bullets skimming past. "6-1-6 where are you positioned?"

_"Bottom end of the runway, Shevchenko - she's pivoted, and ready for vertical take-off , over."_

"I'll suppose I'm bunking with you then?"

_"...Yes... that-..."_ There is a pause and Shevchenko can almost hear the surprise._ "Affirmitate."_

He doesn't bother to give an explanation to how he knows, but rather thunders through the broken building with the H.Y.D.R.A forces on his tail. Because jumping through the large, burning ball of what kitchen used to be would be a very, bad idea, Shevchenko thunders up the metal stairs that lead up onto what was currently used as a common room. The fastest H.Y.D.R.A agent nearly manages to shoot a gauss round into the backs of his calves, but the sudden change in height gave him a few crucial seconds to evade. The only other way to get to the runway from here was either the other set of stairs that functioned as a fire escape, or through the window, but getting caught out dropping ten feet with no cover was not, as he thought, a wise thing to do.

He can feel his head pounding furiously as he tries to think this through and the corners of his vision are starting to blur.

Shevchenko knows from experience that the door will be locked. So he tucks himself in and smashes into it, making the thin layer of plastic and MDF swing on it's hinges, the force slams it back closed again. Sprinting across the room, he's alerted to the sounds of boots against metal grate and he vaults over the pool table positioned in the middle of the room, grabbing a lone cue ball as he does so. His hunter came through the door fast, a blur of thick black against the burning orange. Spinning around to move backwards, Shevchenko jumps, falling against the fire escape and his backside pressing the bar down so he could get out. Just when the H.Y.D.R.A agent goes to raise his handgun however, Shevchenko flings the cue ball at him. He fires, of course, but the distraction caused the man to tilt his handgun towards the far right. The magnetically accelerated round thunders through the air of what he guesses would be at least 5,000mps. The sonic boom crunching against the concrete just beside the doorway, rather then this head. Spinning again, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent bolted down the stairwell, followed rapidly by another two booms from his pursuer's handgun.

Leaping down the stairs five at a time, his body twisted again as he landed on his feet, a little unsteady. The peruser seemed discouraged, but he still came down regardless with a speed Shevchenko did not find particularly helpful. Or reassuring.

From across the runway, he sees it. A large, black, Boeing C-17 Globemaster III military transport aircraft, hovering just above the runway with it's cargo hold door wide open. The H.Y.D.R.A agent that follows him falters at the sight of it, giving Shevchenko a crucial chance. Seizing it, he sprinted down the runway, immediately thankful when the suit changes to the emergency air supply, rather then the standard recycled container. The H.Y.D.R.A forces behind him fire off rounds, the bullets chipping at the concrete just behind his heels. Gasping, he half-shouts into the radio. "Control, do you have a go on the self destruct?"

_"Ground Team, this is Control - we have a positive on the self-destruct. __Control to S.H.I.E.L.D. 5-3-2 are you clear to evacuate?"_

_"This is __S.H.I.E.L.D. 5-3-2, __Affirmitate_, we are clear - taking off in T-Minus 5."

Shevchenko doesn't have to turn around to see if 5-3-2 had taken off or not, because after a few seconds he heard it, the deep roar of the engines and as he continued to run, he could see the massive black plane ripping across the sky before him. The pilot of 6-1-6 must have been more then a little nervous. Any lower and they would have intercepted, causing a crash.

_"Ground Team, be advised BDC Self Destruct sequence has been initiated. T-Minus 45 seconds and counting."_

Swearing as he accelerates to the best of his ability, Shevchenko can feel his head pounding furiously. Black dots dance in his vision, his skull feeling as if it's about to split apart. He can't recall how long it has been, but he's well into the exhaustion period now. He aught to let go, but it's an impossibility. He's still in danger, threats more apparent then a dancing multicoloured elephant in the middle of the Sahara. The Omnicompetence Factor won't let him go, no matter what.

"Copy that, Contr-_Ackfuck_!"

Pain shoots though his calf with the boom of a gauss pistol and the noise he makes afterwards isn't much of a scream but more of an inhuman strangled howl. Sprawling forwards, his suit smashes against the sharp gravel harshly and Shevchenko winds up rolling forwards.

_"Shi- Shevchenko!"_

It hurts - good god, it really does hurt, but the Omnicompetence Factor doesn't care about that. Despite his body's protest, he finds himself staggering onto one knee and pushing himself upwards. His suit becomes baggier around his knees, cool air creeping upwards around his waist. Depressurizing. The magnetized round must have been pushed upwards, because he can feel the wetness of his own blood further up his leg and, no sooner then he starts running again, the majority of his foot and calf as gone completely numb. When he looks back up towards the plane again, he can just about make out a figure on the cargo door. There is also a large tube looking object and Shevchenko only has enough time to comprehend moving faster before it happens. The air around his helmet is sucked out, like it's taking a horrified, gasping breath.

_"Try not to hit him, Ward."_

In movies they often portray explosions as being these slow, snail paced blazes of glory. With the giant green neon timer ticking to zero, and the hero's jaw dropping before they go flying lazily through the air. Of course in real life, explosions are kinda the opposite. There is no warning, no tell-tale sign, no click of a timer. The fast bit, unexpectedly it seems, is the _exploding_ bit.

The grenade lands a few feet behind him, making him half stagger forwards when it explodes into naught but heat and a boom of air. He can't feel the heat because of his HazMat suit, but he knows it's there because the fire is upon him instantly.

Mathematics and Physics are terrifying things, sometimes. If Shevchenko had been a half a foot behind, chances are he would have been propelled to the ground again. To be left in the unforgiving midday air as the timer down in the base's reactor counts down, shattered glass and debris getting kicked up in the air when it does ultimately explode. He would have been left in the agonising milliseconds of what would probably be his excruciating and highly untimely death.

His body starts screaming at him when he gets closer towards the plane, though thankfully, the H.Y.D.R.A agents where no longer firing. It was the reason for the grenade, even if it was a close shave, the hostiles would be left further back, with nothing but the sound of the wailing sirens and a empty base. In front of him evac awaits and he half jumps, half tumbles onto it, grabbing at the metal ridges and scrambling on-board roughly. He groans when someone kicks him forwards onto his front.

"Go, go, go, GO!"

There is a loud, thunderous blast as the Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 turbofan engines fire up.

"Dopey is still out there!"

"... I'm sorry Fitz but-"

There is the faint hiss of decontamination spray and Shevchenko slowly clenches his hands, despite the pain coming from his calf and the furious throbbing behind his eyes, he can feel his muscles shaking themselves to pieces, sending spikes of adrenaline tearing through his nerves. Blinking, someone or something nudges him into his front and light flared before his eyes, making him wince. There is another hiss as his front his decontaminated too. His head feels heavy, confused.

Ah... the factor let go... that's why.

Another shout and the top half of his suit is ripped off, cold air pressing against his skin. He forces it into his lungs suddenly, grimacing. "Перестаньте кричати..." He mutters, thickly, his tongue dumb and sluggish in his mouth. Shevchenko watches as a pair of suited knees slam just before his head with vague fascination.

"Still alive there, Shevchenko?"

Although he's on the verge of passing out, that statement makes him laugh so hard he nearly cries.


	4. The 'Don't Touch Caesar' Rule

**[**THE**LAST**MAN**STANDING]**

* * *

00**4 :** THE 'DON'T TOUCH CAESAR' **RULE**

* * *

Like all abilities of similar calibre, the Omnicompetence Factor had a list of side affects, the most prominent which was mental exhaustion.

Typically the human mind is designed to function at a certain speed and while this in no doubt depends on the individual, if the level of comprehension is too 'slow', it's often perceived that something is missing, or broken or generally otherwise wrong.

On the reverse side of the spectrum, if the brain comprehends too fast, the whole scenario tends to become counter-productive and the long periods of demand soon result in tiring. As Hypercognition was an application of the Factor, this came about in different stages. Mainly, levels. Levels of damage. Too long under the influence and the strain will result in chronic exhaustion, even longer and the damage done to the neurological cells could trigger a seizure. Any longer after that and there is a major threat of a coma, alongside permanent damage. If he could, Shevchenko would stop himself before he reached such levels, but that's just it.

Shevchenko can't control the Omnicompetence Factor; it controls _him_.

Another side affect was memory loss.

This was, regrettably, realised after the Antarctic Incident. He had awoken after slipping into a three week coma to find himself incapable of remembering... well, pretty much everything. His name, the name of his colleagues, all the way to how simple objects worked it didn't matter. Some things, like muscle memory remained, which he was thankful for - because it was this muscle memory that helped restore his previous memories. After thee long years of rehabilitation, that was no longer an issue, per say. Despite what had happened, Shevchenko had relived everything he could imagine about his life before the Incident. Sure, there were some memories he couldn't place - but he knew who he was, in a way.

He wouldn't be the same man he was beforehand - that was no longer possible - but the majority of his psyche was there. A big improvement on how he was at the beginning.

But regardless of that, it was still going to be a reoccurring problem. The Omnicompetence Factor wasn't going away and neither were the side affects.

So when he woke up to the sound of jet engines and faint murmurs of conversation, he wakes up confused.

Shevchenko wakes up _very_, confused.

* * *

**: 1912 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | Airborne Mobile Command Station S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6 "The Bus", North Sea :**

A stray ray of sun peeks in through the window, resting against the side of his face and because it's annoying, Shevchenko tries to swat it away. Of course, simply waving his hand at the sun will not make it leave so he lets his arm fall back down again over his stomach.

Then he remembers that his apartment back at the BDC doesn't _have_ a window.

Shevchenko's hand instantly goes for his revolver that is usually under his head, but instead he just winds up grabbing something soft and when he sits upright he realises that he's in a room that for one was _defiantly_ not somewhere in the BDC. Weaponless, he chokes back the paralysing sear of panic that makes his stomach drop to below his feet and scans the room. His training kicks in automatically and he finds himself bolting upright, jerking his jaw to the left, ready to crack open his back right molar and, ultimately, the cyanide pill tucked away in there.

Then he realises that he's still in his uniform, and that he's unbound.

He hasn't been captured, or at least... he doesn't think so. He's on someone's bed. Not his own, it can't be his own because quite simply Shevchenko never actually sleeps on an actual bed. Never has done. Blinking, he tries to place any recent memories, but his mind is blank.

The sun hits him full force as he shifts into a more comfortable sitting position, instantly bringing his calf upwards when it starts to sting. Blinking blearily, he narrows his eyes at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Insignia plastered on the wall before him. Unless there has been a dramatic change in employee ethics, Shevchenko is pretty certain that he hasn't been captured by S.H.I.E.L.D. So... why does he hurt... and why is he here full stop? Scratching the side of his head, Shevchenko raises both his legs and moves towards the edge of the bed, gently resting both feet against the carpeted floor.

When his gaze locks on a series of familiar looking items however, he knows where he is. He doesn't know how he got here, or why, but he has a good idea where.

Coulson's bedroom.

Because out of all the people currently employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. Shevchenko is pretty sure that Phillip J. Coulson is the only one to have a complete set of vintage Captain America cards. They are currently being kept in a clear collector's book and he can see it from where he is sat, displayed proudly on the man's desktop.

The other small, subtle realisations come afterwards. The leather jacket tossed over the back of his desk chair, the Capitan America keyring on the bedside table and then, after a few moments of consideration, the smell of that L'Eau d'Issey Pour Homme cologne the senior agent insists on wearing. It's lots of small, little things, but they are triggers - and no sooner then he's taken them all in, Shevchenko finds himself calming down rapidly. Fear slowly fading into subtle confusion.

Stumbling across the room, attempting to keep as little pressure off of his injured leg as possible, Shevchenko unintentionally slams himself up against the mirror with a half grunt of mild displeasure. It takes him awhile to work up the balance to keep himself upright, but when he's certain he can do so without buckling he lets go of the mirror to look at his reflection.

The person he sees is not the person he remembers.

After his training, there had not been one ounce of fat on Shevchenko's body and, in the absence of that, during the Antarctic Incident the muscles he had built up over his life had begun to atrophy as he felt the slow, creeping affects of starvation. The rehabilitation period on the Helicarrier hadn't really helped matters because he'd been on intravenous fluids and it wasn't like the BDC had large amounts of food to go around either. Each man had a strict rations allowance, which came monthly on cargo plane.

It wasn't that he still had his strength, the punch ups with his Ukrainian counterparts proved that, but he did not look like himself.

With a shrug, Shevchenko realises that he wasn't really himself anyway. So he guesses it makes sense.

After that... depressing moment of clarification, Shevchenko glances around until he can find his socks and boots. It's warm on... it might be the Helicarrier, but he can hear engines. Plane? Regardless it's warm, so he unzips the top half of his jumpsuit and struggles out of it, leaving him in just the tank-top underneath. Socks were on the bedside table, so he sits back down and pulls them on gently, examining he wound on his leg when he gets to it. It's deep, he can tell that much. He can feel the stitches under the layers of gauze.

Though Shevchenko still doesn't know _how_ it happened.

When he gets to his boots, he's just about to tie his laces when he realises with a grump of frustration that he had actually forgotten how. Things like this tend happen after an episode and the muscle memory would probably come back to him, but it didn't make it any less irritating. For a few moments he sits and tries to remember, leaning against a palm and drumming his fingers against the side of his jaw, but the more he stared the more perplexing they appeared. So he tried to think about something else that might trigger the memory.

He's pretty sure normal people don't sit around around trying to figure out how their damn boots worked.

Grumbling under his breath, he stands and because he knows he'll feel useless for the rest of the day otherwise, Shevchenko just leaves the room. It takes a moment to realise how the door opens, but aside from that everything continues on smoothly. He doesn't collapse, and his head has since stopped pounding - right about now, that's the most he can possibly ask for. Untied lacing flapping as he walks, Shevchenko pauses when he enters the middle of what he defiantly assumes is a plane. He can hear the engines properly and there is an accurate description on the wall towards his left. He still doesn't know how he got here, or why, but it's one mystery he has solved.

"You're awake!"

If Shevchenko wasn't trained, he probably would have bolted. Or, he would have punched her in the face. Either way, it's because of said training that he does neither of these things, but rather he just spins around rapidly, jaw set and eyes narrowed.

And her, _is_ a her. That is... pretty obvious.

"Uh..." Shevchenko greets coherently, his jaw going slack as he attempts to put a name to a face. Has he met her before...? Looking over one shoulder, he half leans against the seats in the middle of the room and grimaces as he tries to place her. Because he is confused, he bounces straight into Ukrainian before he can stop himself. "Ми були введені раніше?" Her reaction is as expected, so he shakes his head and raises a hand. "Have I met you before?" He gets straight to the point and she gives him a faintly comical look in return, with a hint of surprise. With this Shevchenko is convinced that he is defiantly missing something, because he'd remember her, if he had seen her before.

Because she looks... ordinary.

Ordinary looking people are a rarity in S.H.I.E.L.D.

It's not just her looks per say, she slouches as she stands and her general demeanour is more light-hearted and carefree then what is usually seen with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, or otherwise. There's a degree of 'civilian', if you will and it confuses him immensely. She's about the same height as he, but... that's not saying much, considering how Shevchenko only reaches five foot eight when wearing boots. Dark haired, small amount of make up to keep up appearances, wide grin, fragile body, soft features. Nope. Doesn't ring a bell.

Shevchenko bites his lip and gives up. "I cannot remember you, if we have met before." He makes sure to keep his words clear, speaking slowly, deliberately stressing each word. He's all too aware that some people find him difficult to understand, particularly English speakers - Americans, mostly. It's not that his pronunciation is off, per say. It's just that after fifteen years, his accent is quite thick.

She seems to understand him anyway, "I'm Skye," She half grins "And we've met. Coulson said you'd be confused when you woke up."

That makes sense. "And where is Coulson now?" He asks, perhaps a little too harshly, but something doesn't feel right. Something is off and he doesn't know what.

And his bootlaces are still getting on his nerves. He can see them in the corner of his eye. It's annoying.

"He's in his office, nobody knew when you would wake up. So we just figured you'd come around on your own, eventually." She suddenly grins wider and pushes a strand of hair from off of her face. "You gave Ward a black eye."

"I..." He pauses, assembling that sentence in his head. One, he doesn't know who Ward is. Two, he doesn't remember punching anyone in the face. And three...

What the _hell_ is going on?

"I punched someone in the face." He says, more to himself then her, then he deflates. "Ok."

"Ok?" This seems to be amusing her, why, he'd like to know.

"I've done worse, I suppose." He says in the way of explanation and glances around, "I, uh..." Grabbing at the fabric of his bottoms, Shevchenko struggles to order everything in his head.

Thankfully she- _Skye_ seems to realise this, turns towards a set of circular winding stairs and jogs up half way. He won't be able to get up there, not with his leg, but she had already noticed this and signals for him to stay put. He does, blinking as she slams her fists into the wood of what he presumes is Coulson's office door. The man himself comes out after an exchange of words and Shevchenko finds himself scanning Coulson's outward appearance for any indication of what just the hell has been happing.

There isn't much to go by, the man is groomed, per usual. The suit is finely pressed, hardly showing any wrinkles. If anything the most he can assume is that Coulson hasn't slept very well, because there is faint indication of shadows under his eyes.

_But he had been in his room..._

Shevchenko grimaces, eyeing Coulson as he stands before him. The senior agent exhales, as if he's unsure as of what to say.

"How are you feeling?" He eventually grits out and Shevchenko raises an eyebrow.

"Really, костюм?"

"Yeah, ok. Obvious." He turns towards Skye and his expression hardens. "Can you give us a moment?"

Her response to this was bewildering, to say the least. Shevchenko notes about seventeen different facial expressions, starting with subtle confusion, then onto a sudden flash of anger, then realization, judgement. Shock then, which eventually settled onto a steely resolve. Considering how after episodes, Shevchenko can wake up and find himself unable to even recognize the expressions of people's faces, it was starling how clear they were.

Coulson too seems to notice this and half shrugs, "You can give him the tour later, if you'd like."

That lightens her mood and she nods, clicking her fingers and then clapping her hands together. "Right, sure. That's cool. See you later then AC," She turns to Shevchenko, "You too, 'Chenko."

He makes a face.

_Chenko?_

When she turns around the corner out of sight, Coulson glances at Shevchenko and brings his gaze over him. He realises that something his amiss - and he probably knows just what is amiss too - because he indicates towards the seats and presses a tablet against he table. Sitting gently, Shevchenko pauses, before half standing and grimacing somewhat. "I forgot how to tie my boots." He says a little embarrassedly, Coulson pauses, considers for a moment and then nods. He knows how annoying it is, not personally of course, but it's hardly the first time it has happened. There had been plenty of times where Shevchenko had come to Coulson because he had forgotten what things did. Last time it was a fork, which now, looking back, he doesn't really understand.

Crouching next to him, Coulson grabs his good leg and positioned it so he can get to the laces better, Shevchenko watches as the man's fingers deftly retired his laces and then, after a small pause, then double-knotted them for good measure. As soon as he finished, the memory clicked and Shevchenko found himself going to his other boot, tying that one soon afterwards. He could feel his brain functioning properly again and it was something of a relief, because quite frankly he was getting sick of thinking about boot laces.

"Good." Coulson states as he sits down before him, rubbing at his face and adjusting the tablet. "Have you forgotten anything else? Aside from the obvious, that is." He shrugs, so Coulson sighs. He asks for his name, his age, S.H.I.E.L.D's oath and after a few moments of this, he seems confident. They end up running through about twenty different things in total, but it's just to be sure.

"Did I kill anyone?" Shevchenko asks suddenly, pretending to be absorbed at small cut indented into the tabletop as he picks at it. Coulson looks at him for a long time.

"H.Y.D.R.A," He sighs and Shevchenko snaps his head up as Coulson pushes said tablet towards him. "Watch, and if it still doesn't click..." he indicates towards himself.

Although he knew this was going to happen already...

He can feel his day taking a turn for the worst.

* * *

**: - HRS [Local Time] | -,- | [CLASSIFIED Location], East Antarctica :  
: 5 Years, - Months, - Days Ago :**

_They often say, there are no two places alike in the world._

_The landscape that is stretched before him looks very much similar to all the other landscapes he had been looking at for the past week and a half. Wind shrieks across the wasteland of ice and snow and it pushes against him as he walks, towards some distant point near the endless horizon. By the looks of it, this slice of the Antarctic wasn't any different at all, but there was something about it - a peculiar feeling, brought up by either the direction or the pounding order in his head. It gave this landscape an individuality, made it dissimilar to all the other blue icebergs he had seen. How he can tell? He chalks it down to the Omnicompetence Factor, like most things. Such hypersensitivity was a small perk in the sea of inconveniences and although he never often said so out loud, he was proud of it. He'd survived quite an ordeal thanks to this sense._

_Though it had it's downsides. Of course the Omnicompetence Factor had it's downsides. He is reminded of his fact every time he blinks, when his head pounds furiously as he sluggishly walks forwards. Sixteen year old Caesar Shevchenko doesn't know where he is going - only what he was walking away from, and that scares him, because out here, he's alone. Or rather, he's the only S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, at least._

_H.Y.D.R.A. are here too, somewhere, but it's been awhile since Shevchenko last saw them._

_Forcibly pushing the images away with a strangled choke, Shevchenko tries to keep moving, his legs working automatically as the Omnicompetence Factor tries and fails again to get a proper grip. Cold seeps through the bullet holes torn into the fabric pressed against his back, though, thankfully, only part of it is actually wet. At least his bodyarmour works, then. It's something._

_Though if Shevchenko was to be completely honest wit himself, he knows he won't die of blood loss._

_It feels as if he's balancing on a knife edge, like he's about to suddenly topple over the side at any minute and fall through the earth. He's alerted to every little detail, constantly scanning the horizon for something - anything, anyone and he does with his jaw set hard. Through the cracks in the Factor's usually impervious control, he can feel the inexplicable fear pressing against his back. Something invisible and almost intangible clouds his mind, the blood in his veins feeling heavy and cold. Again, the Factor tires to get a grip on his concious, but he's simply too tired, to worn down and it has to give up. He's been drifting between full and half control for the past few days and now, he's pretty certain that the wavering grip of the Factor is one of the few things keeping him alive. That it's stopping him from just flopping down and staying there, unmoving._

_He knew that somewhere, beyond this indistinct boundary, marked by bright red emergency flares where crimson bright light melted the surrounding ice and snow slowly, that perhaps there would be people - friendly people, friendlies, allies, S.H.I.E.L.D. but he couldn't quite believe it. It seemed that life just stopped ten paces beyond the horizon, that there was nothing in front of him, only blistering white emptiness that answered a shout with the deception of a dull echo._

_Knowing what this particular thought process meant, Shevchenko stops walking, wavers slightly and slams both hands over his ears, pressing the layers of nano-treated fabric against them to cut off all noise. He winces as he tries to stop himself from looking at the horizon as if he was looking for something, but rather, he tries to dissolve his gaze into the blinding white and subsequently close off the sounds, all evidence of the external world. So there's nothing but him, the general route - a direction and the thing._

_With this, the Omnicompetence Factor gets a good enough grip and it powers him on forwards, again, he doesn't care anymore, but rather keeps on walking. It's enough, something to keep him going until he inevitably collapses. However, it's not in complete control and that traitorous part of his mind continues to think, to consider about those back home and what they may be doing. The thing he has been sent to recover sends out a GPS and Radar Ping every ten minutes, or so he has been told, so perhaps they are tracking him, waiting. Perhaps it's broken and they have no idea where he is and they are searching. Perhaps not. Perhaps he's listed as MIA already. At sixteen too._

_Gee, that sucks._

_The Omnicompetence Factor makes him shake his head, the whirlwind of all these thoughts, feelings and worries came whipping through him too suddenly and the Factor did not like it at all. He wasn't ready for anything like it, so Shevchenko very nearly recoiled. No, it was probably all a fantasy - there was nobody here, just him and the thing and the snow and the blinding white. He hadn't considered nor realized anything, he was just rambling. Muddling through a series of dehydrated and malnourished thoughts - he was going to die, probably, so that was likely to be causing it. He had been told, that people have odd thought processes when they are about to die. Huh. Figures._

_Faintly grimacing, Shevchenko just tries to keep on walking, shutting his mind down and just ambling towards the faint little line between the ice and the sky, devastated and exhausted._

* * *

**: 1953 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | Airborne Mobile Command Station S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6 "The Bus", North Sea :  
: PRESENT DAY :**

When he finally peels his eyes away from the faint flicker of the video feed, it generally feels like his heart had stopped. Not stutters, or freezes or just skips a couple of beats. Full on stops, cold, dead. It's kind of ironic, considering.

He can remember most of it now, the experiences from early on today pushing forwards and re-ordering themselves to make relative sense. Regardless of this new found order however, Shevchenko can't think. The circuits in his head are completely fired by the sight of a large chunk of Chornohora Mountain blowing up into seemingly nothing.

... Literally.

Shevchenko doesn't know what kind of explosive they had used for the Self-Destruct, but where the BDC used to stand, there is nothing but a gaping hole and a helluva lot of smoke. Nothing to suggest S.H.I.E.L.D. activity, nothing to suggest anything. Just the remaining evidence of a big explosion, smoke, blast residue and a crater. The logical part of his mind supposes that's the point - it was a blacksite in the middle of a hostile country, they had to remove all evidence of it. But still.

It's one of those moments where, for a small, minuscule second, it feels like you've been shoved headfirst into your darkest nightmare. The whole room tilts sideways, somewhat similarly how how the deck of a ship would fall out from under you, then wrench you down. He's been in a navel offence before, back before the Antarctic Incident, so he knows the feeling even if he can't quite remember it. Shevchenko does hate it, however.

All of this, it's but nothing. He's completely numb. The only he can feel, vaguely, if he really, really concentrates is the ache in his hands. It's his body warning him, so he glances down. Relaxing them before he has the chance to break all his fingers.

With that, Shevchenko exhales. Then all the little worries begin to pick up and he sits up, as fast as he is able. Coulson raises an eyebrow, but behind such a nonchalant expression there is an impending degree of worry. Of course, such a feeling is understandable. Blacksites don't just get _attacked_. Both he and Shevchenko had been in S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to know that something big is going down, and pretty god damn quickly. This thought suddenly becomes ten times worse when Shevchenko realises, with a short stab of white hot guilt, that he's the one smack bang in the middle of it all.

Because H.Y.D.R.A didn't attack that blacksite for the pathogens, or the secrets. H.Y.D.R.A attacked that blacksite to get to _him_.

"Who got out?" It's the first thing he asks. Part of his heart is desperate to know, but he still dreads Coulson's answer with every shred of his being.

Coulson shifts, "Most of the Lab Personnel got out..."

"Anderson?"

"He and his fireteam..." Coulson drifts off and Shevchenko gets the meaning. They're dead.

So he just folds one leg over the other and rubs his temples. "Who else?" The slight waver in his voice suddenly develops into an all-out tremor.

Coulson hardens his jaw, he really should tell the boy to stop, to insist that he'll tell him later, when he's not at risk of spending the rest of the evening in the grips of an episode... but, sometimes you have to just spit it out. No matter how bad it is. After all, Shevchenko _has_ to know what happened. "Agents Markovich, Bilicki, Basara, Fletcher, Abrahamovsky, Roberts, O'Neil, Jackson... Machnik."

Shevchenko suddenly snaps his head up, "Lisa?" Coulson frowns, hand hesitating over the files against the table. "Lisa McCallaghan..."

His expression says enough, but Coulson sighs and spits it out anyway. "The control room was the explosive's primary target."

The younger agent closes his eyes in momentary pain, and then the rush of all the other implications of his episode hits. He puts his face in his hands, leaning back against the seats with a solid thud. She's dead. They're all dead. He was supposed to _protect_ the будинок відпочинку, it's why he was there in the first place, but now it's a smouldering crater. Christ, he's really ruined everything.

"What happens now?" He says though his fingers.

Coulson slides a file over towards him so that it hits one of his elbows, oddly perplexed by this, Shevchenko pulls his hands away and picks it up slowly. "We were supposed to land on the BDC and... uh..."

"Let me guess, Fury wanted me back in the field and thusly decided that because you wrestled me into my clothes when I was five and half, that you'd be best to do it." Coulson for a small, genuine moment looks surprised and Shevchenko gives him rather unhumoured look in response. "I'm level seven, Coulson." He reminds the senior agent, "Just because I'm on the other side of the globe, doesn't mean I am _any_ less informed. I knew it was you as soon as I discovered that the plane's tag was 6-1-6."

Coulson raises his hands as if it to say 'you win' and then half grimaces. Lord, he's forgotten how observant Shevchenko really is. "With everything that is happening, the original plan is out the window. The Director will want to see you on the Helicarrier, after that, presumably you'll have to go through a full medical... and, you'll have to get replacements for all your old things."

And there's a lot to replace.

Because of the sheer... intensity, of the Omnicompetence Factor, normal, little everyday problems that affect one's brain are exemplified by about five times as much. In order to deal with this in a relatively normal fashion, S.H.I.E.L.D. had, over the years, since provided the answers. The specialised E-Cigarette for the nicotine addiction, the violin to act as an anchor, the series of vitamins and sedatives and god knows what else in take to keep himself regular and limit the amount of episode. Hell, even his old uniform, the specialised set of gear that he hardly ever used was completely gone now.

On top of that, there was his actual _belongings_. Like his clothes, and his things and his tossing motorbike, which is probably a pile of condensed scrap metal now. That thought makes him grimace.

"I'm not paying for any of that." Shevchenko then frowns, hard. Hell, his credit cards have probably been pancaked too. Not that Shevchenko really had any banking details to begin with - he hardly even exists. It's quite hard to get a bank account when the only ID you are allowed to carry is carry a coffee shop loyalty card that, now that he thins about it, expired around five years ago.

Coulson seems to agree with him on this, "The Director will probably have it all dished out in compensation." Grunting, Shevchenko takes in the rest of the plane in which he can see. It's pretty... loaded, if that was the correct word to use and he raises an eyebrow at the senior agent.

"This compensation too?" Coulson nods, "Boeing C-17 Globemaster." the younger of the two whistles, "Handsome plane - from the outside, of course." Shevchenko then shrugs, "Guess it's good payment, for getting stabbed by a Asgardian megalomaniac shithead, I suppose. How is that by the way, костюм?"

Coulson very nearly scolds him for the latter part of the question, "Better."

That makes Shevchenko grin. "I'll never get any better."

"Spoken like a true believer."

The younger agent eyes Coulson for a moment, "I woke up this morning incapable of tying my own bootlaces, I have every right to dwell in disbelief."

Coulson has to admit, he has a point. "I guess this is the point were a good former-not-quite handler would ask you if you wanted to talk about all of this. I know you don't, really, but since I'm already here..." Like expected Shevchenko makes a face, and Coulson shrugs, but for a moment, Shevchenko frowns as if he's thinking of something.

"How long have I been out?"

"Just about all day, good thing you woke up when you did - the Helicarrier is only a few hours away." Coulson begins to pick up the files and order them neatly into a pile. "Dragged you in there when you eventually passed out."

"I hit someone, apparently."

This seems to make Coulson smile, not completely, but he's humoured none the less. "Ward didn't know about the 'Don't Touch Caesar' rule, he did, and you gave him a shiner. Though I think you've bruised his ego more the his face, really. After that you passed out."

"And you put my in your room." Shevchenko is still frowning and Coulson realises after a few moments, that he's doing that mildly irritating way of asking questions without actually asking.

"Had to," He states, "If we put you in the interrogation room, you'd probably have killed yourself before any of us could stop you." Shevchenko tilts his head, it does make sense. "It wasn't exactly an easy thing to pull off either, they force-feeding you rocks in the BDC, boy? You weigh a ton for someone so skinny."

Shevchenko shrugs, "I wouldn't be surprised if that was a main component, those MRE's..." He pulls a face, "The height of American cuisine. Бог чертовски потрапило."

Coulson shakes his head, as if he can't quite believe that Shevchenko said such a thing. "I'd be less subjective, right now, Americans outnumber Ukrainians by six to one." Shevchenko sighs, puts his head back into his hands and then rubs his face, before passing his hand down to press against the muscles in his neck. "Anyway, like I said, the Helicarrier is a good couple of hours away still - might as well get acquainted with them."

"I'd rather not, костюм."

The senior agent must see the doubt and every other shred of uncomfortable feeling in Shevchenko's eyes because his voice softens considerably. "Ok, I get it. You haven't had to deal with... people, not since the last time. But I've told you about five hundred times before and since that you can do better then that cooped up мудак in there." He waves in the direction of Shevchenko's head and picks up the files, "Anyway, last time you went and made a bad impression, you didn't seem to give a damn... Plus anway, Skye wanted to give you a tour, and I promised."

Shevchenko doesn't say anything, just swallows hard. Coulson stands and thumps him hard on the upper shoulder, but when he's just about to walk off to the vague direction of his office, he stops, looking over his shoulder. "You better get used to things, Caesar, because Fury hasn't ordered you back to the Helicarrier just so you can look at the scenery."


	5. The Team

**[**THE**LAST**MAN**STANDING]**

* * *

00**5 :**  
THE **TEAM**

* * *

**: 2003 HRS [Local Time] | 16, July | Airborne Mobile Command Station S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6 "The BUS", North Sea :**

As soon as Coulson disappeared up into his office, Skye spent no time in rounding the corner and making her way over towards where Shevchenko sat, she hadn't meant to listen in - but sometimes her inherit interest and idle curiosity just had to be sated. That, and it would be better then hacking S.H.I.E.L.D. later on just to get the same information at a later date, surely. Even though a lot of the information disclosed during the two agent's discussion, admittedly, she did know beforehand.

But in an organisation were secrets are valued more highly then their own President - every bit of knowledge helps, she supposes. It's not often that you can simply 'overhear' something spoken between two secret agents.

Standing beside the sitting agent, Skye snaps her heard towards him when Shevchenko suddenly staggers to his feet and moves around towards the opposite side of the table. Hands grasping at the bottoms of his jumpsuit, he glances at her, then at Coulson's office door then at her again. "So..." He hesitates for a few moments and Skye eyes him as he does so. She didn't hear the last part of the conversation, but she can assume that it was in regards to his... unease. Most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents she knew weren't as nervous. "How many of you are there, exactly?"

"Six, if you include me and AC."

"AC?"

"Yeah," Rocking on the backs of her heels, she half smirks. "Agent Coulson. Y'know, A for Agent, C for Coulson."

Half perplexed, half bemused he turns towards her properly and with that small movement, she can finally make out his features. Although it was recognizable from the photograph inside that S.H.I.E.L.D. dossier, the differences between that expressionless mugshot and the male stood before her here were vast. The aftermath of bad news had aged his face by about five years, which, made Skye realise that she did not know his actual age, at all. The slight hints given by Coulson and even May suggested that he was between eighteen and twenty three, but hints were hints at the end of the day.

Not that it mattered, with that guarded expression and weather-beaten demeanour, he looked fifty, even though his face and bone structure said early twenties. Those half-feral eyes and all that general unease he felt seemed to suggest two hundred. Hell, Coulson had younger eyes and he was nearly thirty decades her senior - and he had _died_.

Despite the pent up curiosity however, Skye knows when a certain question shouldn't be asked. So she just half grins and wanders down the plane's corridor, beckoning him to follow. Shevchenko with a shake of the head looks up, clearly not ready to commit just yet to her idea of going around meeting and greeting. "Already?" He asks, frowning. Unless she's suddenly come up with a different plan in a matter of seconds, it's pretty obvious that she means now.

"Yeah, come on."

It takes a long few minutes and there's another pause of silence. Then, _then_ though, he glances at her and slowly concedes. Something which, Skye realises, is not hard to make him do. She'd think a highly trained agent would be harder to convince. His steps follow somewhat gradually as she ambles down the plane, unsure of what troubles they'll get into this evening.

"So we call this plane the BUS, no idea why. It was named that before I got here and I guess it stuck." Shevchenko nodded as Skye talked, scratching idly at unshaven jaw and snapping his head around to take in the space around him. The first room they visit is rather squashed in appearance, a large communication's screen surrounded by smaller monitors. A lot of them were on standby, the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem acting as their screensavers. "And this," Skye half smirks "is were we create elaborate plots." Shevchenko had already guessed this of course, but he doesn't interrupt her commentary. Most facilities, airborne, sea or otherwise will have a room like this. The BDC has-

Had.

The BDC _had_, a room like this.

The stab of white hot guilt returns with a gasping choke. Sensing the sudden imbalance, Skye turns around and leans against the table in the centre of the room. "So," She eyes him casually. "What do you call S.H.I.E.L.D. in Ukraine?"

Out of all the questions she could possibly ask, this one gives him a pause. Not because he doesn't know the answer, but rather Shevchenko isn't exactly... expecting it to put it bluntly, so he doesn't respond straight away. Instead he stands there like a tossing fruitcake for a few seconds, trying to detect if she's being serious.

"S.H.I.E.L.D." He replies, carefully. "It's an acronym, it doesn't change."

Skye considers this for a moment, "Huh, so you don't use the long winded version or...?"

"I guess if I had to." With his hands shoved into his jumpsuit pockets, Shevchenko distracts himself by scuffing some dirt into the pristine carpeted floor. He's not used to this, at all. Not the plane, not the décor - hell, not even casual conversation. He suddenly inhales, "Стратегічні Батьківщини втручання, правоохоронних органів та відділу логістики..." The feeling of vague discomfort in talking to someone who closely resembles a civilian person, amplifies by about nine thousand. "But it's quite the mouthful and not very translation friendly."

"Yeah," She agrees "That was pretty evident."

"It's not very conversation friendly either," Shevchenko grumbles. "- those words in that order can and will get you shot."

"Wow, some holiday destination." Skye mutters and Shevchenko manages a strained half smile - though the weight of remembrance that had suddenly turned up a few seconds ago seems to have been lifted. Skye swallows the victory smile and indicates for them to move on.

The change in conversation it seemed, had worked. Skye might not be an agent, but rookie or not - she's not completely tactless. Shevchenko is clearly out of his depth, and, if what Coulson says is true, then he's got a lot of demons to overcome before he's even remotely comfortable again. But that's ok, she decides. He's clearly trying to make this work, the least they can do is try too.

Despite the sheer... destructive element to the man - she _had_ seen that video feed and Shevchenko _is_ defiantly the definition of 'Hyper Lethal' - he's no were near as... well, 'Agent Ward' as she had first expected. With the title of "BDC Praetorian Leader, Agent Caesar Shevchenko" she expected a massive Ukrainian male with a perfect posture, tidy suit and shiny shoes. The very picture of a good S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Instead, she had been treated to the sight of a smallish man who most certainly did not have a perfect posture, had tattoos covering his arms and who opted to wear only half of his uniform for the sake of comfort.

"There's not a lot to do on the plane, really - I mean, unless you can put the exercise equipment, board games and alochol to good use, all the time." Skye comments as she walks, moving from area to area, room to room and Shevchenko follows slowly. With every new place, he draws to a slow standstill, eyeing everything in sight. Considering, evaluating. "Why do you do that?"

Half listening, Shevchenko frowns, snapping his head around and generally looking quite uneasy. "There's..." Spinning on his heels, he goes towards one of the walls and presses the side of his face against it, looking across. "This place has more bugs then an Al-Qaeda bathouse." Backing away abruptly, he points to five different places along the wall, turns, then eyes the opposite one, then the roof and even some of the furniture. "Fifteen in total - this is just one room, I noticed another nine in the last room and a couple more along the hallway there."

Skye makes a face, "How did you know?"

"I just... notice these things. Hypercognition, Intuitive Aptitude - whatever you want to call it. I'm a man of small details, it's how I'm hardwired." Stepping back into the centre of the room, he winces, looks it all over again and shakes his head abruptly. "It's one of the reasons why I was sent to the BDC in the first place."

"Oh," Skye regards him, but when she realises that he's not beaten up about it - or well, not as extensively as before - she purses his lips. "Because you notice things?"

"It makes me a very good watchman, y'know? Guardsman, or well, in that case; Преторіанскій - Praetorian."

"Praetorians," Skye echoes the word, "Weren't they bodyguards?"

"That's where the word comes from," He nods "Ancient Roman."

"Yeah, I studied them in collage." Skye murmers and Shevchenko raises an eyebrow, "What?"

"Hm, didn't think you were and academic type," With this, he moves forwards to the next room on his own accord. Skye shrugs her shoulders as she follows him.

"I like history, I guess."

"History is good, the more you know about the past, the less likely you're going to repeat it."

Skye has to admit, Shevchenko has a point. Following him into the hanger, she watches as Shevchenko does his thing for a few minutes and once he's certain that he's found every little bug and is suitably informed of the goings on, he smirks at the red 1962 Chevrolet Corvette. Skye is just about to say it when Shevchenko looks over his shoulder at her.

"Oh don't worry, I know."

"Something tells me you've done it before." Skye's lips slowly quirk upwards into a grin and Shevchenko just shrugs.

"What can I say," The Ukrainian puts his hands up in mock surrender, "I was was seven - and, tearing down the nearest highway seemed like a good idea at the time."

That makes Skye laugh, "He must have been upset with you."

"There's something about Coulson going spare that I..." He suddenly becomes beat, "Find pleasing." Then he looks up at the nearest security camera and licks his bottom lip. "If everything goes well, _mmm hmm_ - I might show Костюм how I obtained my driver's licence." Skye pretends to hang herself with an imaginary noose and the man just snickers. A few more subtle observations in the hanger, like where the exercise equipment was kept and other scraps of absent knowledge that's hardly important yet still somehow relevant, and Skye very nearly drags Shevchenko over towards the lab. She's enthusiastic, so much so that she's practically skipping the whole way there.

"You've gotta meet FitzSimmons." She says, her eyes daring him to disagree with her idea. He doesn't because he's trying to be polite, and Skye has a level of determination that he can't quite match when in this state. "You'll love them, I think. Everybody loves these guys." When they reach the doors, Skye full on flings Shevchenko into them, because he's not expecting it, the man himself just overbalances and face-plants the glass, which makes the two people on the other side of said glass jerk upwards in surprise, Shevchenko notes vaguely while his ass loudly objects to breaking his fall. Skye snickers loudly from behind him, and he glares at her over his shoulder.

"Injured!" He scolds, throwing his leg up for emphasis. "You shouldn't go pushing injured people around!"

"Oh suck it up, 'chenko." She smirks and bounds past him. "You know, you kick ass on a professional level - you shouldn't be letting a skinny little lass like me push you around full stop."

Completely forgetting the fact that there are two relative strangers in the same room who are in need of a good, proper, first impression, Shevchenko follows her in. "I can't smack you the fuck off!" He complains and Skye snorts as she turns around to look at him again, folding her arms with a very amused look on her face.

"What? You can't hit me for it?"

He, Agent Caesar Shevchenko, waves his arms in what is dangerously close to being a girly flail, "Don't hit girls! It's wrong!" Then he pauses, glances Skye up and down and frowns, as if he was thinking of something very important "...and anyway where the hell would I hit? S'jiggly bits in all the wrong places-"

"Ok!" Skye says loudly, interrupting him and turning towards the two, somewhat stunned, people at the other side of the room. Shevchenko stops and then backtracks, his left hand slamming down onto his trousers again. "Guys, this is 'chenko, we all met earlier." Skye is just about to say something else, when she notes that Shevchenko is staring off onto one side of the room. His expression is a mix between something violently panicked and damn furious, and he turns towards the male, eyes narrowed. "Uh, so yeah..."

Fortunately or unfortunately, said male has already moved forwards and was half way through extending his hand for a shake when he realises. "Hey..." He then says, somewhat alarmed "I'm-"

"Fitz." Shevchenko says without missing a beat, extending his own hand and keeping his tone just that over conversational.

Fitz just nods, "Yeah, yeah I am."

Shevchenko takes in his appearance, the engineer is taller then him, but Shevchenko's shoulders are about three times as wide. "I remember you," The Ukrainian then states, before nodding at a large black object stored upon one of the shelves. "And I remember that."

Fitz turns around to see what the hell he's talking about, and then realizes that he's staring directly at a certain piece of equipment that Fitz himself has had for well over four years now. He opens his mouth to say something, but surprise soon flicks over his features and whatever he was about to say just turns into a gasping laugh. "Ah, You were the agent down on the ground?!"

Shevchenko just nods. Slowly taking his hand back as gently as he can. Fitz doesn't realise, because he's flung his own hands over to lace them around the back of his head, still grinning.

"Guys?" Skye murmurs, eyes flicking between them both.

"That's the thing I was sent to secure, back..." Shevchenko suddenly becomes very uncomfortable, and he folds his arms over his torso. "It was a long time ago. Fitz here provided technological support at the time."

Fitz moves over towards the back of the room and pulls the thing off the shelf with a heave, dropping it heavily onto the desk. "It's essentially a device to make the incomprehensible readings we get Tesseract technology, comprehensible. The radionuclides don't match any of our isotopes, but that little do-hicky right there is capable of reading it regardless - and essentially, translates it into information we do understand." He smiles as he turns back towards Shevchenko, who's suddenly lost all the colour in his face and is staring at machine like it's going to suddenly rear up and bite him.

"You don't seem to happy to see it." Skye notes, wisely.

"I'm not, at all." Shevchenko admits, shifting towards the end of the table to put as much distance between it and him as he can without appearing to be rude.

"Soooo, what happened?" His abusive new found friend asks and Shevchenko snaps his head towards her.

"I beg yo-"

"Half a decade ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. deemed it a mathematical possibility that technology of similar stripe to the Tesseract exists - and that various types would be present on Earth, within a certain timeframe." Fitz rattles on, but stops himself soon afterwards, to correct himself. "Not just a possibility - a certainty." He then turns towards his computers, regarding them with an arm flourish, "Every projection I ran confirmed it."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. knew they couldn't 'read it', nor did they really want to at the time, or that was the opinion that was widely shared when I was growing up." Shevchenko takes over, "But, cue a way to do so and they all jumped on the bandwagon." With this, he suddenly finds something captivating about his boots, because he won't look up from them. "Safeguarding soon became understanding, I guess."

"Tens - dozens of scientists began to set to work immediately, after a few months they had a prototype ready at a RnD lab in the Eastern Antarctic."

With that, Skye bites on her lip and glances towards Simmons. The other woman doesn't notice, because she's half occupied with a tablet and a series of small vials.

Sighing, Shevchenko rubs the back of his neck. "Thing is, S.H.I.E.L.D. aren't the only people interested in the Tesseract, H.Y.D.R.A wanted in on the action. I was sent there as soon as preliminary warnings began to flag up. I was supposed to grab the... thing and leave, in and out."

"But the bad guys got there first." Skye connects the dots and Shevchenko gives her a tired nod, "God... I'm sorry."

"It was a sub-optimal performance." The Ukrainian admits, "If I had better gear with me, I would have been in that base and there was no doubt, that I would be ready to help defend them." He flicks his gaze upwards for a moment, but it's back to his boots soon afterwards. "I was sent there thinking that everything was in order, but... it wasn't; the base was designed to lock down upon the trigger of an alarm. Guess if I had a selection of code-breaking equipment and other security bypassing gear, I'd have been able. But I didn't. I didn't have the know how to do so manually, and they paid for it."

"Given that you had to make do with buggy software, the outcome could have been much worse." Fitz says, low, in a very serious tone and Shevchenko's features twist into something hostile.

"I nearly died as it was."

"Good point."

"That sounds..." Skye sighs, "horrible."

"Software glitches sent of a cascade of system crashes. S.H.I.E.L.D. realised that he wouldn't be able to do it himself, not from there, so they... actually pulled me out of a University lecture in order to give him help. I had to take the base's main reactor offline and then, it was a battle of power outages and more system crashes until I could reset the base's main data core with an older, more reliable version of the OS." Fitz states, hands in his pockets.

"And that means?" Skye raises both her eyebrows.

But her explanation comes from Shevchenko instead, "He got me in." His voice low, agitated and very much wavering.

"Anyway!" Simmons interrupts and comes walking towards Shevchenko and they immediately shake hands as soon as they get within arms reach. She doesn't come any closer, something that Shevchenko acknowledges and with a small half smile, it seems that he is thankful for it. "It's lovely to meet you, properly." She says, patting his hand with her other one and introducing her self with a very wide, very exited smile. "I'm Jemma Simmons."

"I guess you already know who I am." Shevchenko grumps in the way of reply, he looks over towards Fitz, who just nods.

"Leo Fitz, please."

"Yeah, this is the guy's nerd cave. If it's incomprehensible to us knuckle-heads or has a long Latin name, it belongs in here." Skye explains, giving the place a once over and smirking.

There is a pause, and Gemma suddenly bursts, "Just... I have to say, what you did-"

"It was a amazing." Both she and Fitz then say, in unison and it makes Shevchenko suddenly swallow.

"Uh-huh,"

"It's just... brilliant, the way you're able to perform such crystalline hypercognition in such short notice." Gemma states, her hands coming upwards and annotating her words as she says them.

"And, use beat the living stuffing out of men thrice your size..." Fitz adds, then realises Shevchenko's... actual size, before spluttering and making up for it suddenly "Uh! No offence."

"Guess it's one way to use it, hm." Shevchenko waves him off.

"See, look! Now you have two new members of the Chenko fan club!" Skye grins, patting the Ukrainian on the shoulder as she walks past him. "C'mon little man, we're gonna go and see Ward now."

"Eh- _Chenko_?" Shevchenko pulls a face, "About that." He follows her, one hand rubbing his neck and the other moving into his pocket. "Just call me Caesar."

Skye smirks, "Julius Squeezer!"

"Oh my _Christ_," Shevchenko groans, leaving the room and ignoring the way the other two grin.

"See you, guys." Skye says as she follows him up the stairs.

"Yeah, sure." Gemma says between chuckles, and Shevchenko just has the time to get out of earshot when it happens. Skye notices too, and she's speeding up.

"So you're awake at least I see." Ward comes walking in from their right, stopping just short of Shevchenko. It's very deliberate.

Shevchenko stops abruptly, so abruptly that Skye nearly slams into him. Turning on the heels of his boots so that he's standing directly before Ward, the Ukrainian stares him down. Even though Shevchenko is clearly younger and half a foot shorter, the levels of control, cocksure self-worth and general Alpha-Male arrogance is about the same. Lowering his head, the shorter agent runs his gaze up slowly, then down, from the perfectly gelled ends of Ward's hair to the gleam on his shoes.

As it turns out, Ward is a burnished brunette with mahogany brown eyes. Ridiculously attractive, really. Aside from the tiny indication of a bruise under his left eye, there is nothing wrong with his general appearance. At all.

And with this Shevchenko seemingly decides that Agent Grant Ward is beneath and even vaguely dignified response:

"Well. There's no fooling _you_, Dumbass."

He powers on past Ward and Skye remembers with an amusing sense of clarity, that the BUS has hidden microphones and cameras, so someone, somewhere, probably heard the entire exchange.

Foreseeing imminent Coulson tantrums of the not-quite-explosive-but-unnerving-none-the-less sort, Skye hastily turns to the fuming Ward that Shevchenko leaves in his wake. "Don't worry," She smirks "I'm pretty sure that just means he likes you." As an afterthought, she gives him a vaguely consoling, but still very much manly, pat on the shoulder as she passes. She doesn't let her hand linger to long, though. She is pretty sure suck-uppery is contagious.

"He's even worse then I-"

"Ward," Skye smirks, "I've just embarrassed him in front of the others, give him some credit."

"Yeah Wardle," Shevchenko says, "Throw me a bone." He stops to regard him a second time, then zooms in on the black eye. Ward seems to notice what he's doing, because he scowls. "Sorry about that by the way."

"This?" The bigger agent replies, pressing against the bruise with shrug "It was nothing compared to some of the injuries I've faced before."

Shevchenko just shrugs, "Lucky you."

Skye just sighs, rounding up the entire conversation with little more then a cliché line, a grin and a shove, moving the smaller agent further down the corridor.

"Agent Shevchenko, Agent Ward, Agent Ward, Agent Shevchenko." When they are far enough that they are out of earshot, she just shakes her head and grins even wider. "_This_, is going to be a blast."


End file.
